Finnick Loves Blank
by broken halleluiah
Summary: A lot of names have filled that blank, but hers was never supposed to. I thought I was giving her an education, but maybe I was the one with a lesson to learn... Annie's games from Finnick's POV. *NOW COMPLETE*
1. Reaped

**Hi everybody! This is my second Hunger Games story and my first about Annie and Finnick. :) Anyway, this first chapter is short, sort of a prologue, but the others will be longer. Please read and review! I appreciate (constructive) criticism!**

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><p>I can't remember the name of the blonde who is leaning on my arm.<p>

The face is familiar enough. Gorgeous, like they all are. Soft curls that tickle my face when she moves in for a kiss. I grace her with a good one, because she still has a few hours on the clock with me. I decide to call her babe, because I'm not sure if even the _glorious_ Finnick Odair could pass off a slip-up with her name as arrogant nonchalance. It might become a little too painfully obvious that I just don't care.

She's not technically supposed to be here, up on the platform with me on Reaping Day. That chair was reserved for Mags, my district's female mentor. But she's old and does whatever she wants, and I guess she didn't feel like showing up today. No one cares, though, because I am Finnick and this girl is hot and that is the way people like things. She flings her arms around me and peppers my cheek with more kisses. "Babe," I say quietly, because the mayor is nearing the end of his speech. "Babe, I have to pay attention to this part." The actual reaping. She ignores me, and I end up having to ease her back into her chair.

Our Capitol escort, Pallindra, hurries across the stage to the big glass balls full of names. The slip she draws designates some poor scrawny thirteen-year-old from the wharf, but another older boy immediately volunteers in his place. Otto Morris. He is a Career. Number nine. Of the eight I have mentored before him, four girls, four boys, half have been Careers like him, and half just unfortunate victims of fate. Some of them gave up right away, others fought hard to receive the illustrious glory that I did.

They are all dead.

But the sight of this one- a tall, muscular specimen, an eighteen-year-old who has obviously been training rigorously for years- well, it's almost encouraging. He doesn't have a face that will draw sponsors, but still, I can work with him.

When Pallindra crosses the stage to the girls' ball, I can't help hoping that the slip will be for my lover, so the insane woman will finally get off me. And so I could learn her name, of course. But she's from the Capitol, so she's never had to worry about the Reaping. Or anything else. Instead our escort unfolds the paper and reads a name that doesn't ring a bell. _Annie Cresta. _The crowd of sixteen-year-old girls parts and she steps forward.

I take inventory quickly, the way all mentors learn how to do. She's medium height but lanky, all girl who hasn't filled into a woman yet. Dark, mousy brown hair, fearful eyes. A terrified squeak pushes out of her throat as she mounts the platform. No one volunteers for her.

I can count her out now. She's not tough or even particularly athletic. And while I'm sure there's some little fisherman's son who finds her pale, round little face pleasant, she's ugly by any reasonable standards. Definitely by mine. No sponsors for her. I push this Annie to the back of my mind. Otto is my main concern, because I need to train a victor this year. Even Finnick's adoring fans can only tolerate so much failure.

The tributes shake hands, the music starts, and my current one true love needs another kiss. And then I am swamped by the crowd, signing autographs until I can't feel my fingers.

They promised me everything if I won. I have to constantly remind myself that this is everything.

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><p><strong>Yes, Finnick acts like an arrogant jerk but don't forget, this IS an act. And he's so good, he's even fooled himself at this point. Thanks for reading!<strong>


	2. Blinded

**Annie and Finnick's first meeting? Romantic? Well, let's see...** **;)**

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><p>We finally reach a point in our festivities when we have to say good-bye, the blonde and I. She can't ride the officially sanctioned train to the Capitol with us, but she promises to meet me there. I pull her into a long kiss right in the middle of the train depot and don't let go until the clicking of the reporters' cameras finally slows. "Wow," she giggles breathlessly. "I'm gonna miss you so much, Finnick!"<p>

I nod seriously, watching the train pull in behind her. Several cars are covered with long banners printed with my face. "I'm gonna miss you too…" I delicately touch her cheek and glance over her shoulder. Sure enough, one banner is adorned with our lovely images, our names enveloped in a large heart. "…Ophelia…" I finish casually. Her face lights up with a radiant smile, and she melts into my arms.

Ding ding ding! We have a winner!

Everyone is boarding now. I kiss Ophelia again and step onto the train, taking one last breath of sea-salt air. I try to savor it, because all I'll smell for weeks is pungent Capitol perfume. She starts to cry and then I have to keep waving and blowing kisses until the station is out of sight.

Stupid girl. She must know she's never going to see me again.

I join Mags and Pallindra in the dining car early and make polite small talk while we wait for the tributes to emerge from their rooms. The kids have been given a few minutes to "wash up", make themselves presentable. This is really just an excuse to give the non-Careers a chance to pull themselves together. So I'm not surprised when Pallindra eventually has to go retrieve Annie from her private car. She probably feels a lot safer in there.

This is when I formally meet my pupils. I rise and shake their hands with a classic Finnick-smile and invite them to sit while Capitol attendants serve us a seven-course meal. While they dine, I give them the spiel that I gave the eight tributes before them.

"You probably know me from TV, maybe you saw my Games back in the day. I'm Finnick Odair, I won when I was fourteen, second youngest kid in there. I was a Career like you, Otto, only I never went to school for it. My uncle and a few of his friends trained me at home. You see, my parents married young, and when I was just a baby, my father was reaped. He didn't return, although he did make it to the final three. So of course-" I pause for dramatic effect. "My victory won back my family's honor."

My father was a chubby, balding, middle-aged sailor whose ship was lost at sea in a hurricane when I was two. I didn't get to learn this until after I won the Games, though, so why should they?

"Anyway…" I continue. "Mags taught me some survival skills, and she didn't have any trouble winning a few sponsors for me. Somebody really liked me, they sent me a trident, and after that it was game over. I killed almost a third of my competition."

Annie, who has been delicately picking at her chicken calamari, suddenly chokes on nothing. I give her an icy smile but continue to elaborate.

"Seven kids. Two in hand-to-hand combat, five of them I snared and then stabbed to death with my trident," I say in a cold, clinical voice, as if reading off sports scores or the morning weather. Annie presses a napkin to her mouth and slumps in her seat, her already pale face turning a sickly grayish-green.

_Oh, little chickadee. You're gonna have to grow up fast._

"I won, and now I'm rich and sexy beyond my wildest dreams. Any questions about me?" I clap my hands without waiting for a response. "Great. Let's talk about you guys."

I lean forward, chin in hand, and look expectantly at Otto. He clears his throat and speaks in a deep, somewhat clumsy voice. "Well, uh… I've been training since I could… um, walk I guess and I'm really good at throwing stuff at people's heads," he says. I get the feeling that this kid wasn't in line for valedictorian but, hey, the Games aren't rocket science.

"Great. Wonderful. Can you use a weapon?" I ask eagerly.

He nods. "Yeah, spear, sword, mace… anything with a handle."

"Oh, excellent! How about a bow and arrow?"

He shrugs. "Nah."

"Okay. Okay, that's great." I turn to Annie, trying to keep a straight face, like I'm actually going to be able to help her. "What about you, chickadee? Any special skills?"

She bites her lip and slowly stirs her food. "I can swim," she finally answers listlessly.

This is not a special skill. Not in District Four, where everyone lives within a mile of the sea. I nod, urging her to continue.

"I- I guess I can run pretty fast. I can dodge, I can blend in, I can… I can find my own food." She glances up at me, and I meet her eyes for the first time. They are a deep turquoise-green, the color of the ocean, with darker blue flecks that seem to float on the waves. That probably means she is tearing up.

"I can play the flute," she mutters, and it's so irrelevant and pathetic that we all sit in uncomfortable silence for several minutes, wondering if someone should tell her how useless that will be. But I'm sure she already knows it. I finally reach across the table and pat her hand.

"It's okay. It's all right, Annie, we can work with that," I lie, because it's just a bit too heartless to tell a kid she's dead meat before training even starts. She gives me a tiny, watery smile, and then quickly pulls her hand out from under mine.

"Anything you'd like to add, Mags?" I ask. She may be my fellow mentor, but she always lets me handle this part because she doesn't like to talk about her own games. She opens her mouth as if to say something now, but instead just pops out her dentures and begins to pick little bits of shrimp out of them.

Mags makes my whole world brighter.

I spend the rest of the meal discussing Otto's strategy with him. Neither of us cares that Annie is overhearing everything.

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><p>I find Annie when I enter the breakfast car the next morning, leaning over a bowl of hot porridge with her head bowed, long hair covering her face. I strut up and jerk out the seat beside her, announcing my presence grandly the way I always do. "Hey, chickadee. You're up awfully early. Need some extra <em>Finnick<em>-time?" I ask with one eyebrow raised flirtatiously. It's sure to make her smile, if she would just look. I reach over and gently brush the dark hair out of her eyes, and immediately wish I hadn't.

Those pretty sea-green eyes, the only nice feature she had going for her, are puffy and bloodshot. I bite my lip, at a loss, for once. The first eight… I never saw any of them cry.

"How you doing?" I ask lamely. I can see she's no fighter, but it would be really great if she could hold it together for the opening ceremonies. Still, I can hardly blame her while she's in the privacy of her traveling quarters.

She wrinkles her nose at me. "Oh, I'm doing _marvelously_, thanks for asking. I'm on a train headed to my death, and the beautiful Finnick Odair is at my side, so close I can _smell_ him. My every dream has come true." She stands and heads over to the buffet table for a plate of fruit.

I just sit there, taken aback for a moment. Not because her words are hurtful, but because she's said them with the kind of biting sarcasm that could have come out of _my_ mouth. I decide right then and there that I could have a lot of fun with this girl. I push my chair back and follow her to the buffet table, putting my lips up close beside her ear, hoping to startle her.

"Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear," I breathe.

Annie turns to me and snorts. "Please don't try to kiss me. I might keel over with happiness," she says dryly. I can't help grinning.

"What makes you think that you aren't too common for something that… _spectacular_?" I purr, slipping my arms around her waist. Oh, the cheeky ones are always the most fun. She tries to back away, but I have her trapped. "But…. I guess I can let it slide this once…"

The poor darling is starting to panic. I've called her bluff. She may have nerve, but she's so unprepared, so innocent. It's obvious that I have long since forgotten what is considered proper behavior in our home district. She grabs a container off the buffet and holds it up between us, as if to protect herself. "This is pepper!" she says with a wide, nervous smile, unscrewing the lid. "It _will_ burn your eyes!"

I laugh softly, pulling her close. "Can't hurt. They're already burning. With _loooooove_." I lean down toward her mouth.

And a cloud of black dust flies into my face. Followed by very intense pain.

I scream and let go of her, clawing at my eyes uselessly, trying to put out the fire. I turn on Annie, or where I think she must be, because I'm going blind. "What the _heck_ is wrong with you?" I screech, pepper-induced tears already streaming down my cheeks.

I hear, rather than see, her turn on her heel and flee the room with quick footfalls, slamming the door in satisfaction. Well, I hope she has gotten pleasure out of this small victory.

Because it's going to be her last.

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><p><strong>I know that was a little less than traditionally romantic, but it's hard to have love at first sight when the girl blinds you. :P Finnick's pretty cold right now but I can't imagine he'll stay that way forever... :D<br>**


	3. Distracted

**Mags! :D**

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><p>"Will you <em>quit whining<em>, you big baby? You know you deserved it."

I flush my eyes one final time and turn to Mags, who is shaking her old gray head at me. "I deserved it?" I hiss, taking the bottle of eye drops she holds out. "I _deserved _it? I deserve some respect! I'm her mentor, after all!"

She laughs, a deep, throaty sound, and sticks out her bottom lip teasingly. "Oh, you just got your feelings all hurt. 'Cause now there're _two _girls in the whole country that don't wanna kiss you." She slaps my rear end, hard, as she leaves the room. I grimace and hear her warbling laugh disappearing down the hall.

I've never asked Mags how old she is, because it would only make her slap me harder. Probably in her mid-seventies, although you wouldn't know it from talking to her. Her body may be finally starting to slow down, but she has plenty of energy and knows a thing or two about being a mentor. I guess I'm proof of that. I've never publicly given her credit for keeping me alive in the arena, but we both know she deserves it. She says she's too old to be in the spotlight with me. In that way, she's like a mother to me, happy just to support me behind the scenes.

Who am I kidding? She's like a mother to me in a lot of ways, certainly more than the woman who raised me. I haven't seen my real family in years, although I suppose they watch me on TV all the time. It's an idea that's still hard to get used to. People compare fame to living in a fishbowl, but that's not how I see it at all. It's more like one of those one-way panes of glass, a window to people on the outside and a mirror to people inside. Everyone can see me, but I can only see myself.

The eye drops are useless. When I finally give up and head back out to breakfast, my eyes are still puffy and red like I've been either drinking or crying all night, possibly both. A hush falls over the table when I enter, looking like such a wreck. I don't offer any explanation, just sit down and silently go to work on a plate of pancakes. Even with my head down, I can feel them all staring at me, wanting answers but knowing they're not allowed to ask. All except Annie, who quickly excuses herself to go to the restroom. Probably just holding back laughter.

_Yeah, better fly away, little chickadee._ She has made me look weak in front of Otto, and that irritates me. These Careers, you see, come into the Games already knowing how to fight and not wanting to answer to anyone. Every mentor from the richer districts has had a power struggle with one before, but since I won the Games when I was so young, I've had to train Careers twice my size and years older than me who didn't think I had a clue what I was doing. Of course, after we got in the training area, I showed them who was in charge. But everything would be so much simpler if I didn't have to prove myself yet again.

Otto and I don't speak for the duration of the meal, it's only Pallindra and the stylists who try to keep small talk going. They are silly, stupid Capitol people, just like Ophelia. The sad thing is, I know and understand everything they talk about. And while my assigned personality dictates that I should join in, I'm having a harder time than usual masking my disgust for their parties and fashions and plastic surgeries. They always complain about those frivolous things in front of the tributes, who will probably be dead within weeks. It's grossly insensitive, but I doubt Otto minds much because he seems to think he is immortal. And Annie… well, Annie's still hiding in the bathroom, afraid to face me again.

Her fellow tribute notices this about the same moment I do. "What happened to the little girl?" he asks. Pallindra runs to knock on the bathroom door, but Annie doesn't reappear until breakfast dishes have been removed and Otto has been whisked away by his stylist. Annie's stylist is waiting for her, too, but I wave the man away. "I need a moment with the young _enchantress_."

Annie's looking even paler than before, and she swallows hard when she realizes she's alone with me again. She doesn't have anything to worry about, though. I've picked up the cool, aloof persona that is me, not in public. "How are your eyes?" she asks with what sounds like genuine concern.

"Um, I've gone permanently blind." I give her a disgusted look. "Annie, I'm fine, it was just pepper."

She sighs in relief. "I'm sorry, I- I panicked. You… you were going to kiss me."

I can't help the eyebrow thing here. "And would that _really_ have been such a disaster?"

She scuffs a toe against the ground hesitantly, as if debating whether or not to confide in me. She finally decides to, probably against her better judgment.

"I've never kissed a boy before," Annie says quietly, studying the floor.

I laugh aloud. "Never kissed a boy?" The idea is preposterous to me.

"Yes!" She sounds slightly defensive. "And I don't want to waste my first one on you. I want it to be somebody who loves me."

_Waste? _On _me? _I lean forward on the table with a smug smile, shaking my head wisely. "Chickadee, you don't know a _thing _about love."

She glances up then, and her wide ocean-eyes catch and hold mine for a moment. It's hard to look away. "Neither do you," she murmurs.

I throw back my head and laugh loudly, derisively. "Better get going, my pure little angel." I point toward the exit. "Your Capitol audience is waiting for you, and you have some growing up to do before we get there."

She points her chin high in the air and hurries out, slamming the door behind her. Again. Really, the display of temper is ridiculous. Almost as ridiculous as her comment. That _I_ don't know a thing about love? It takes me a long time to stop laughing about it.

And even longer to stop thinking about it.

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><p>I'm not required to do much after we reach the Capitol. It's the stylists' job to pretty up the tributes before the chariot parade, and all I need to do is poke my head in, nod approvingly, and remind them to stand up straight and smile. After that, I'm free to tour the City Circle, mingle with the other victors who are supposed to be becoming something like old friends. <em>Free <em>being a relative term, of course, because as soon as I'm in the crowd, a very important man, President Snow's personal Secretary of the Whatever, appears and shakes my hand and introduces me to his wife's friend's cousin's daughter. The pretty brunette is shackled to my arm for the rest of the night.

There isn't really anybody here I want to talk to, but I'm swamped with Capitol citizens dying for a few seconds of my attention. I don't mind it much until an entire squadron of teenage girls pushes through the masses to surround me. And I swear, if I hear one more of them cry hysterically that they have touched my arm, I'm gonna hurt somebody. Possibly myself.

My brunette fights them off savagely, and we make a break for the reserved seating near the top of the stands. It's almost time for the grand unveiling of the tributes, so I scan the bleachers for a spot with the best view below. My love gives a disgusted sigh.

"Can you believe those girls? How pathetic!" she snorts, squeezing my arm tightly, protectively.

"Absolutely repulsive," I murmur as she snuggles closer.

Leeches. There were leeches in my arena. Big ones that I had to rip out of my leg. Drained one kid completely. They were almost this bothersome.

The other victors begin to file in, still chatting, swapping stories. A whole group of the men are wasted, laughing rowdily, and I consider joining them and laughing like I'm drunk, to keep up appearances. Then I see that they're all crowded around Chaff and old Haymitch. I scoot away from them, and my brunette follows.

Chaff is a good guy. He can always be counted on for a laugh, a great dirty joke. But Haymitch… I'm not in the mood for his particular brand of humor.

Mags catches my eye from the next bleacher over, where she is talking with the other old lady victors. She motions for me to lean back so she can get a glimpse of my date. Mags knits her white brow together, studies the brunette from head to toe. And then shakes her head seriously. I make a face at her.

Mags took it upon herself years ago to play not only the role of my mother and my grandmother but also a protective older sister. She must approve or disapprove of every girl I drag around with me. It's become sort of a running joke between us, the inspection, then the head shake yay or nay, because she must know I have no choice in the matter. Honestly, I can't remember the last time she approved a girl in my company.

I also spot Johanna Mason, last year's winner, a few rows above. We had some fun times back in the day, when I was in the Capitol and she visited on her Victory Tour. She's the best practical jokester I've ever met. Almost too cruel to be funny. Almost. She's watching me, so I quirk my eyebrows teasingly.

I take that back, she's glaring at me. And shooting me unkind hand gestures. That doesn't really surprise me, but the murderous gleam in her eyes sort of does. But Johanna always was a bit unpredictable. I shrug it off and turn back around, because President Snow's voice is booming through a thousand speakers, reverberating through the City Circle. That's our cue to stop talking and pretend to listen to the speech he very redundantly gives year after year.

And then the chariots. This is the first glimpse any of us get of the other districts' tributes. I quickly assess the first pair to fly down the lane below. Careers from District One. Both tall, big-boned, broad shoulders, dressed in gaudy rainbow-printed fabric. Big, winning smiles. Then District Two. A short, stocky boy who looks like a wrestler. A much taller, lankier girl who would probably seem painfully awkward if it weren't for her cold, ruthless expression. They are killers, no doubt.

District 3 produces, as usual, a couple of scrawny kids with wide, deep-set eyes. Even their platform shoes and heels can't disguise the fact that they haven't cleared five feet.

And now District 4. I don't plan to pay attention. I already know my tributes, know their individual strategies or lack thereof. I already approved their costumes with a quick glance, a curt nod. But they still make quite an entrance.

Otto looks positively deadly in his midnight blue jumpsuit that accentuates his every oversized muscle. A thin sash drapes over one shoulder. It's not made of fabric, but razor-sharp shark teeth strung together in a band that glints in the flickering torchlight. His lips are pursed in a fierce scowl, but I can tell from the crowd's awestruck response that they're expecting him to suddenly bare a mouthful of the pearly weapons. It's probably possible with the Capitol's extreme surgeries.

And Annie. The dress she's been fitted in makes her appear not skinny and girlish, but wispy. Graceful. Her stylist has followed the fish motif, as well. The fabric ripples in the chariot's breeze, creating the iridescent effect of scales, blue and green like the shimmering colors in her eyes. In fact, it all matches perfectly, the dress, the ocean, her eyes, and for a moment, I'm back on my sandy shore, watching the waves wash in, watching the sea breeze blow her dark curls back…

"_Finnick._" My brunette jerks my arm, irritation growing in her voice, and I suddenly get the feeling that she's tried to get my attention several times.

"Sorry, I was…" I trail off. Distracted? Is that possible? Well, my compliments to the stylist for making plain little Annie distracting. That must have taken talent.

My love's pouting up at me. "They told me you were gonna be fun," she whines.

"Hey, there, babe, you haven't given me a chance!" I protest, realizing how much I've been neglecting my duties. The last thing I need is this girl running back to her high and mighty uncle's mother's cousin's friend and complaining about me. I slip my arm around her waist and pull her up to my lips.

And all I can think is, I can't remember my first kiss. I can't remember anything about it.

I must step back much too soon, because she grabs the front of my shirt desperately. "Finnick?" she says uncertainly, never relaxing her grip.

"Hey," I lower my voice to a whisper, pretending to suddenly be very fascinated with brushing back her dark hair. "Hey, I… I think… I think I love you…" I let my statement drop off. Because I've forgotten the name. Again. My eyes scan the City Circle, hoping for a banner, a screen with our pictures plastered on it.

"Say it!" she pleads.

My eyes lock onto a sign down in the crowd below. _Finnick Loves Nicole! _ I grasp her arms fervently. "I love you, Nicole!" I cry before my mind registers reason.

For a moment I'm staring into horrified eyes, and then her hand flies up and stings my cheek. Then my darling has stomped down the steps and disappeared, leaving me alone.

"I love you, too, Finnick!" someone, I presume Nicole, shrieks up at me. I lean over the edge of the balcony and blow a kiss in her general direction. A couple dozen girls reach up to catch it, squealing and fanning themselves.

_Oh, yeah,_ I think dully. _I've still got it._

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><p><strong>Somebody's gonna be in <em>trouble... <em>:O I enjoyed Finnick's slip-up, how about you?**_  
><em>


	4. Attached

**Well how are you all liking it so far? Not terribly romantic, I know, but then again Annie "crept up on him"… Enjoy!**

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><p>I'm going to be in trouble. That hot brunette who is not named Nicole is going to tell all her friends in high places, probably going to exaggerate the incident, probably going to cry. And if she does, I'm going to have to watch my back.<p>

Because my part of the deal was that I have to act like I care. And so far this trip, I haven't been terribly convincing.

We dine together, tributes and mentors, on the fourth floor of the Training Center in District 4's private apartment. Both Annie and Otto's stylists have joined us, and the hot topic of conversation is, of course, the chariot ride, the stunning costumes, and the crowd's enthusiastic response. There's no denying that District 4 has caught the Capitol's attention. I consider telling Annie how she even caught _my _attention in that getup but think better of it. She'd probably only take it as further harassment.

After dessert, everyone goes their separate ways, with me promising to spend some more time coaching Otto after the tributes change out of their elaborate costumes. Mags catches my arm as we leave the dining area, but I have to wait for her to stick her dentures back in before she speaks.

"So there's three of us now?" she asks with a mischievous glint in her eyes.

I frown. "Three what?"

"Three of us not in your fan club. Wow-_ee_ she slapped you good!"

I turn to walk away without another word. As I expected, she just follows me. "You had your eye on somebody else tonight!"

I stop, suddenly going stiff.

"Don't try to deny it!" she crows triumphantly.

I force myself to face her, rolling my eyes. "You're ridiculous. She's ugly."

"Oh, of course she is. I have a hard time remembering that whenever I look at her." She smirks at me. "I'm gonna take over her training anyway, if you don't mind."

I shake my head. "Don't worry about it. I can spend time with both of them."

"No, you can't," Mags says brusquely, waving me off. "I know you too well. I'm gonna train her."

"Well… are you going to make an effort?" I ask hesitantly.

"Of course! That girl's got potential, if you know where to look for it!" Mags exclaims. "I apologize in advance if I do too good a job, and she kills Otto."

There's a hint of her rare dark humor. I laugh out loud. "Really, Mags, you haven't done this on your own for years. I can find her potential, too. I can handle both of them."

"No…" Mags studies me intently. "Finnick, I _know _you. You're not getting attached."

_Attached?_

She must recognize my bewildered expression, because she reaches up and brushes my cheek with her wrinkled fingers. "Trust me."

I don't get the chance to question her, because she suddenly complains that the whole night's rowdy festivities have given her a bad headache and wanders away to her quarters, leaving me to wonder about her words. Since when have I been in danger of getting attached to anybody? But still, she knows better than anyone how rough it is to be a mentor. To have your dreams dashed year after year after getting your hopes up so high. District 4 has had dozens of victors, mostly Careers, but none of them ever return to be mentors. Only the most recent victor, the newcomer, the fresh one, has to worry about filling this unpleasant role. I'm just serving my sentence until I bring back another new victor who can take my place. Then I will be able to live out the rest of my life in the lap of luxury back home. That's what every tribute has done in the past. Mags is the only exception. Why she returns year after year without being forced or even really sought after is baffling to me, because I'm counting down the days before I can be out of this wretched city forever, back in the water, bobbing in the surf, hearing the cries of gulls over my head…

My imagination must be getting the better of me, because I really can hear the squawk of seagulls drifting from the living area of our apartment. I poke my head through the doorway and find that the picture window, which takes up an entire wide wall of the room, is switched to a calming image of a sunny seashore, complete with sound effects of the waves quietly lapping at the sand. Annie sits on the big plush couch directly across from it, drinking in the scene thirstily. Out of the glittering costume, back in baggy pajamas, she looks younger again, girlish, fragile. I get the feeling that she's counting down the days too, although she doesn't have many left.

"Pretty realistic, huh?" I say, settling myself against the doorframe. She glances at me for a moment but doesn't respond. Instead, she leans back against her pile of cushions and squeezes her eyes shut, little nose twitching.

"I wish I could smell it," she whispers wistfully.

That's the last thing she should really be worrying about three days before the Games. Maybe as a good mentor I should tell her she needs to stop wishing, to let go of home and the flood of memories and get her head in the game. But I just can't bring myself to say it.

"Yeah," I mutter. "I miss that smell."

I realize it's the first truly honest thing I've said all day. Annie turns to me with a soft smile and curls her knees up to her chest, leaving an empty cushion on the end of the couch. An invitation. She has forgiven me for my initial offense. Even though I am still me and I still disgust her, she doesn't want to be alone right now.

I quickly excuse myself and return to the dining room where Otto is awaiting my expertise, even though I'd love to stay and watch out the window and try to forget that I'm in the Capitol. I'm glad that the boy is my only responsibility now, that Mags will help Annie out in the Games.

Because for the first time, I'm really dreading watching her lose.

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><p>Otto is up at the crack of dawn the next morning, ready to tackle the day's challenges, which means I have to be, too. We spend a five-course breakfast discussing his proficiency with various weapons, which skills he should practice during the group training today and which he should keep a secret from his competition. After a lot of debate, we decide that he should only practice those that he's not already lethal with. "Don't forget to stop at the survival stations," I tell him, although I'm fairly certain he won't want to waste the time. "I didn't, and it almost cost me my life."<p>

He considers that for a moment, wheels slowly turning behind his dull eyes. "Tell me about your games!" he says eagerly. The question is unsolicited and sort of surprises me because most Careers from our district have watched the tapes of my highlights so many times they're sick to death of me. But I start at the beginning, describing my arena, the humid, soggy sponge of land that served as a cross between a swamp and a rainforest. I've lost count of how many people have ignorantly accused the District 4 kids of having an advantage in the wetlands. As if being a strong swimmer came in handy in the slimy green bog that only rose to our calves at its deepest. I relate my most famous moments, gaining a record number of sponsors, watching that trident float down from the sky like an answer to prayer, the subsequent rampage that I went on. Oh, and even I don't get tired of talking about the alligator that tore a hole in my left arm just before I put three holes in him with my beautiful new pronged weapon. I can still trace the spot on my shoulder where its teeth sank into my flesh, although no scar remains. I wish the Capitol doctors hadn't done such an excellent job in cleaning me up after the Games, because if an alligator is going to nearly take my appendage off, it'd be nice to have something to show for it.

Otto is engrossed in my account of all the deadly wildlife in the arena, snakes with venomous fangs, frogs with poisonous skin, mosquitoes that swarmed like tracker jackers, and, most eerily, fast-growing vines that curled around your legs if you rested in one place for too long. I know of a couple of kids that fell asleep in a cluster of them and never woke up because the tendrils strangled or suffocated them.

I move away from talking about the glamorized horrors of the swamp and explain the more mundane challenges I faced. For my entire week of preparation, I had ignored everything Mags said, all her survival tips that she had promised would mean the difference between my life and death. I resented the fact that I, a young, strong, handsome kid who knew everything, had to take advice from a toothless, hunched old woman who was the only one who stepped forward to mentor me. The previous victor had gotten into some trouble with the Capitol authorities and disappeared after the first day of training. Needless to say, I was humiliated and mouthed off to her every chance I got.

And then I entered the arena. Within hours of traveling away from the Cornucopia's bloodbath, I was dead lost in the swamp. I had always been able to orientate myself from the position of the sun in the sky or the feel of the breeze, both of which were indiscernible in the still, shadowy bog. I vaguely remembered someone telling me that moss grows on the north side of the trees so I set off resolutely in a northerly direction. Until I turned around once and realized that every tree was girded with moss all the way around its trunk.

The first gift I received was a compass.

I recount to him what might have been my least impressive moment in the games. We were several days in, the air was muggy and thick, tributes were dropping from disease and dehydration. Weak with thirst, even the filthy contaminated swamp water started to look appealing. Growing up around undrinkable water, you'd think I would have known better, but dehydration definitely clouds your reasoning. I remember dropping to my knees, squishing in the sodden ground, and reaching a hand down into the clearest water I could find. Still, I had to pick little clumps of moss and algae out of it, and if that didn't give me pause, the putrid smell should have. But my only concern at that point was that it was wet. I heard Mags' voice telling me faintly to stay away from water sources that I haven't seen animals drinking from. But in my daze, I was sure the fool old woman had no idea what she was talking about.

I only drank two handfuls. That was plenty, enough to turn my insides to liquid within minutes and violently expel them outside. I'm sure that the 65th Hunger Games highlights never would have included that glorious clip. I was forced to make camp in the giant, hollow trunk of a tree for two days because I was too sick to move. Slumped there in the dank, foul-smelling darkness, clutching my stomach with one hand and my little fish-gutting knife in the other, it was the only moment in the arena that I felt vulnerable.

And then the rain started, pure, clean, fresh water running off the leaves of the tree canopy by the bucketful, drumming on the thick bark of my hiding place. I dragged myself to the opening in the wood, cupped my hands to catch a few droplets. Every little splash in the bog echoed Mags' voice. _I told you so. I told you. _It was the first time in my life that I was painfully aware that I was not the smartest person in the world, not the strongest or the most glamorous. I was not guaranteed to make it out of this alive, and with that knowledge came the realization that I had as good a reason to be terrified as anyone else.

I recovered, unlike several other unfortunate tributes. And I wished that I could go back and hear Mags' survival speeches again. Thankfully, I had retained bits and pieces of her advice entirely by accident, and from then on, I was careful.

"Moral of the story, you are not almighty. You are not immortal. There's a good chance you could die, especially if you get over-confident," I tell Otto matter-of-factly.

"Thanks for the heads-up," he says dryly, but he's nodding, at least trying to get my words filed away in his brain. We really weren't so different, he and I, cocky, self-assured kids wanting attention. A chance to show off. But I think I would have looked hotter in the shark teeth.

"I mean, you've got to appear confident. Play it up for the audience. But don't forget to think before you act." I lean back in my chair and cross my arms. "Which brings up another important point, you've got to know a few things about performing for the audience. If you want people rooting for you, make every battle a memorable one. Don't go around killing people in their sleep. Nobody likes a Career kid who does that."

He snorts. "Sure would make everything easier."

"This isn't gonna be easy no matter how you slice it," I remind him. "And another thing… Don't kill Annie," I say wearily. "That's just being a bad sport."

"Oh, all right." He seems surprised that I've even wasted time thinking about this. "Well, she's not exactly going to be a threat."

"Exactly. Everyone hates to watch a tribute turn on the other kid from their district."

Otto frowns at me. "But you-"

"I know what I did," I snap irritably. "You should learn from my mistakes."

"Well, obviously you didn't make too many. You won and everybody loves you," he insists, obviously bewildered by my advice.

Oh, that's right. I forgot again. I have everything I could ever dream of.

"You know, the Capitol really doesn't care if you kill someone in cold blood…" he mutters.

_But you will_… I think. Years from now, he will still see their faces. How could I ever begin to explain that to him?

"Just take my word for it," I instruct him. He hesitates, then nods respectfully.

He's so much better than I was.

Annie enters the dining room then, a little reluctantly, as if she doesn't want us to think she has been eavesdropping. "Good morning," she says with a little smile.

I glance at the nearest of twenty-five clocks in the apartment. "Oh, you guys need to get a move on." Group Training starts in fifteen minutes, and they aren't even dressed for it yet. "How did your session with Mags go?" I ask Annie pleasantly.

She flinches. "Mags isn't awake yet."

My face falls. "Excuse me?"

"I didn't want to disturb her!" she exclaims. "Not while she's so…"

"Old?" Otto supplies.

I run a hand through my hair. "You mean you haven't had any instruction about today?"

She shakes her head, loose curls splaying over her shoulders. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach, because she's going to look so clueless in front of the other tributes. Easy prey. Even though she wasn't my responsibility, I feel like I've failed her. I clear my throat. "Well, um, try to learn something new. There's got to be something you're good at."

She wrinkles her nose at me like she did the first day of the Reaping, as if I smell nasty to her. "I doubt it."

Pallindra appears to collect them then and goes into cardiac arrest when she sees they aren't ready to go. As she's whisking them back to their stylists, I call after Annie, "Try archery! Archery's sexy!"

She gives me a disgusted look over her shoulder. But I like to think that there was a little twinkle in her eye.

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading this far, everybody! How are you liking it?<strong>


	5. Sh-ponsors

**Guess who we get to meet in this chapter! Scroll down about three lines and find out!**

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><p>"Oh, yes! Who wants to <em>sh<em>-ponsor me?_ Step aside_, fools!"

Oh gosh, it's Haymitch. The drunken slur of the words is a dead giveaway. The crowd parts around me, camera shutters clicking away as the idiot staggers toward me. I turn my back on him and try to appear as deep in conversation as possible with the Capitol man with the flaming tattoos in place of his eyebrows. He is showing a genuine interest in supporting Otto, examining the photos from the Reaping with his face screwed up in thought. With his brow knit like this, I suddenly become aware that the tattoos are accented with little white, dangling studs. Shark teeth.

Oh, good. District 4 is starting another trend.

"Who wants to _sh_-ponsor me?" Haymitch roars again. He's made his way over to us, boasting a glass of whiskey that I can't imagine he found on a refreshment table at this banquet. Getting toasted isn't considered a very practical way to attract sponsors at these shindigs. "Everyone wants to shponsor the _other _loser!"

I grit my teeth, refusing to acknowledge him. Haymitch Abernathy is the only surviving victor from District 12, which is the smallest, most backwards little village in Panem. The people there still mine coal and farm goats for a living, and I don't think they've developed soap yet. With an ocean at our backdoors, at least the people of my district bathe from time to time. Haymitch is chubby and balding, with a crooked smile that never quite clears the sober mark. He's a loudmouth and a general failure who lives alone with bottles for his only friends. And he makes fun of _me_.

Because the two of us have exactly one thing in common. Neither of us has produced a victor yet.

He saunters up and throws his arm around me like we're old friends, and his alcohol breath and general stench overwhelms me. My potential sponsor with the fiery face takes a large step back and coughs a little, trying to be discreet.

"What do you want, Haymitch?" I say in a tight voice. The shorter this encounter can be, the better.

"What everybody here's looking for! Money!" he hollers, taking another swig and dribbling whiskey down the front of my suit. I swear I'm going to kill him.

"But I'm not gonna get any! And you know _why_?" He doesn't wait for an answer."Because my kids are dead meat, that's why! Both of them, scrawny, pathetic! Never had their fill of food in their life. Why, I can see the boy's ribs!"

He's shouting this to the crowd of Capitol guests, who are quickly growing uncomfortable and disinterested. Haymitch laughs boisterously, as if this is all part of a grand joke. "See? Every year's the same story!"

I shove him away from me and try to salvage the sponsor situation. Thankfully, the tattooed man has stuck around, still wrapped up in my pictures, studying a chart on the wall that has officially been deemed "the Odds". Otto's currently number four, although his score's been fluctuating in the top six for most of the evening. I found Annie at number nineteen when I first arrived and I've been afraid to check for her name since.

"Are those his real muscles?" the Capitol man asked curiously. I nod and give a winning smile, and he seems genuinely impressed. Only these ridiculous people would assume that the tributes have been altered in some way before the Games.

The sponsor nods and hands me back the pictures. "I'll start with fifty points, and we'll see how he performs, all right?"

Fifty points is barely enough to cover a couple dinner rolls after a few days in the arena, but I nod and smile as if he's made a great contribution. "Thank you, sir. Every little bit helps," I say, hoping he catches the emphasis on _little._

A gaggle of giggling little Capitol women catches up to me and crowds in for a photo shoot. I kiss the nearest one spontaneously, and she collapses in a dead faint, knocking over a table covered with dishes of shrimp sauce. The others rush to catch her, squeal over the food stains on her brand new evening gown. I really hope someone sends me a copy of that one.

"Oh, yes! Get a picture of me with the hunky victor!" Haymitch staggers up with a refilled glass and knocks back the whole thing at once. "I want my picture with Finnick!" he says mockingly.

I grab the man's collar and shove him up against a long banquet table, other hand clutched in a fist at my side. If it was only us victors here, if I didn't have to keep up appearances for this crowd, I wouldn't have any problem decking him. "Leave me alone, you old fool," I snap, trying to keep my voice down but quickly losing my cool. Because Haymitch is the only person in the world that actually unnerves me.

He grins at my iron grasp on his shirt. "You know, I used to be a lot like you. Strong, fiery temper… kinda a looker, too."

I nod disbelievingly and release him, pushing him toward the big ballroom doors. "Goody for you. Go pass out somewhere."

He doesn't move. "You wanna know what the difference is between you and me, sport?"

I bite my lip. "Aside from the obvious everything?"

He leans in close until his stink makes my stomach turn. "Twenty years," he whispers, scraggly beard tickling my ear. "Forty kids."

I shudder involuntarily. This is exactly the reaction Haymitch is looking for, and he throws back his head and has a good long laugh. "Oh, in a few years, you and me are gonna have some good times together!" he exclaims, holding his glass high.

"I'm not coming back, idiot. I'm winning!" I spit at him, because I have momentarily forgotten that I am not competing in these games. "I've got a victor this year. I'm going home!"

"You win and you can go home?" he repeats, bloodshot eyes glancing thoughtfully upwards. "Isn't that what they told us the first time?"

I turn on my heel and storm away, muttering obscenities under my breath. I hate that man. Because he's right. He's always right.

I am always being reminded what a great honor it is that I get to experience the luxury of the Capitol parties every year. And this ballroom is President Snow's favorite, in his personal favorite of his dozen homes. We're in the richest area of the Capitol, so they tell me, but I feel like that would be a hard thing to determine. Still, everything sparkles. A fine layer of glitter has been sprinkled over the crimson tablecloths on which the forty-dish banquet has been laid. Light shimmers off the crystal chandeliers, reflecting in the punch bowl. I ladle myself a glass and spot Johanna Mason at the next table over, grabbing a handful of calamari directly out of the pewter dish and stuffing her face. I can't help chuckling to myself.

"Johanna!" I call, holding up my glass and examining the contents teasingly. "Is this safe?"

A few months ago, on her victory tour, Johanna and I got a bit fed up with the excess of the Capitol parties. These people make themselves vomit when they're full just so they can enjoy eating another meal. The two of us sneaked away a little glass of the emetic and spiked the punch. I have never seen or smelled anything more disgusting than the ballroom that night. I have also never laughed so hard in all my life.

Johanna glances up from her calamari and stiffens when she sees me. Her dark eyes harden a bit, but other than that, she remains expressionless as she walks over to me, still chewing. And then she smacks the glass out of my hand. It shatters on the ground and the blood-red liquid soaks into the front of my suit, mixing with Haymitch's whiskey. I stand there rigidly until the urge to wring her neck passes. She just continues to glare up at me, nostrils flaring with every breath.

"Johanna," I finally manage through gritted teeth. "Have I done something to offend you?"

That's when she completely loses it. She flies forward with a shriek, knocking me backwards, fingernails raking across my face and my arms. I push her off and try to pin her arms to her sides, but she's still screaming horrible things at me. I only catch one word that's not a profanity, because it seems to reach out and slap my face. _Sellout. _She calls me a sellout. To whom? To the Capitol? Who around here isn't?

A couple of burly security officers appear and rip Johanna off me. One of them flings her struggling form over his shoulder.

"I'm so sorry, Finnick," the other guard says, turning to glare at Johanna. "_This one _still needs to be taught a lesson." I don't want to know what kind of lesson he is implying.

"Oh, no!" I laugh lightly, pausing to wipe blood off my lip. "Oh, we were just messing around. Don't… don't throw her out."

They drag her out anyway, kicking and screaming, and I can only hope that my dismissal will have made things easier for her. I consider her a friend, because for about one moment in our lives, we understood each other perfectly. And we conspired to poison hundreds of people together. That's bonding.

I feel a hand on my shoulder then. I turn and see Seneca Crane, Head Gamemaker, standing behind me, watching the security officers and Johanna disappear through a side door. He's shaking his head gravely.

"Don't take it personally," he murmurs confidentially. "The poor girl just lost her mother." His tone is full of sympathy that never quite reaches his eyes.

My face falls. "Oh, I'm so sorry," I say, wishing I could have a chance to talk to her without being viciously attacked. "What happened?"

"Kidney failure." Something in his voice, under the regret, turns my blood ice-cold. I want to bolt for the door, go after her. But Crane's still beside me, as if waiting for a chance to say something else. I turn to him expectantly. The Head Gamemaker's not usually seen at these events, talking to mentors, because then of course rumors fly that he was giving tips to somebody or another unfairly, and everyone would rather just avoid the whole ordeal. But he isn't here to discuss the Games, the arena, the traps. Crane holds out a little square of fancy stationary to me.

"You've been invited to a birthday party," he says cheerfully. "Tomorrow night. It's for a lovely young Capitol woman who's coming of age."

I nod slowly, not understanding. "She's the President's youngest niece. She personally requested you." He winks at me, not a pleasant sight. "Of course, you will be a guest of honor in the President's own household."

A guest of the President. Of the President's niece. I swallow hard, because I can't remember the last time I had so much pressure to perform. "Of course," I say with a bitter smile. "I do birthday parties."

I need Mags here. I need her to disapprove. To shake her head no.

I tried to rouse her this morning, after Annie and Otto went to training. I tried, Pallindra tried, but it was useless. Mags gets in these moods sometimes. She has dizzy spells and refuses to do anything. I'm aggravated with her for not helping Annie the way she said she would, but I keep reminding myself that it's out of my hands. I had to devote myself to one of them, after all. Still, her odds are a poor reflection on District 4. And I have to admit, I feel sorry for her. I've never thought much about what it would be like to enter the Games if you hadn't trained for it. The "honor" would be somewhere between being handed your death sentence and being handed a ticket straight down to where the sun don't shine.

So I'm doubly surprised when I spot my old lady friend across the dance floor maybe an hour later, because even on her good days, Mags maintains that she's too old for these parties. I wave her over, and the first thing I notice is that she's staggering, like she's had too much. I've never seen Mags touch alcohol in all the years I've known her.

"Finnick, we need more sh-ponsors," she spits, and I burst out laughing, because the slur of her words reminds me so much of Haymitch.

"Sh-ponsors, huh? Are you drunk?" I ask, a bit too gleefully, because finally she's disobeying all the lectures she ever gave me.

She takes my clipboard and mumbles something else unintelligible. I take her by the arm and lead her toward a bench near the front doors. "Come on. You'd better sit down."

Her reply is more than garbled, it's pure gibberish. I ask her to repeat herself, but it's like she's speaking a different language. I pull her around and stare at her for a moment. Her jaw is limp, her cheeks are sagging, like she's got giant jowls. My stomach drops, because suddenly I know something is really wrong.

"What the heck is the matter with you?" I demand, grasping her shoulders. But her eyes are already rolling back in her head.

I try to yell for help, but my voice catches in my throat. The only thing I can do is catch her before she slumps to the ground.


	6. Stunned

**I love this chapter... might be a turn-around point for some people. And who wants to hear more of Finnick's backstory? Me! Pick me!**

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><p><em>"They're out there. The whole nation of Panem is waiting for you, Finnick. What are you going to tell them? What did you fight for?"<em>

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><p>Cassandra. I'm not going to forget this one's name.<p>

One, because she is President Snow's niece, and he is sitting two chairs down the table from me, black, snakelike eyes sweeping every guest even as he smiles and nods at them. I haven't been this close to him since he shook my hand on my Victory Tour, five years ago.

And two, because she shares her name with the girl who was my fellow tribute from Four, the freckle-faced tomboy who lives on in my nightmares even though she died on the end of my trident.

I always claimed that I didn't recognize her in time. I did.

This Cassandra is leaning on me, her fingers laced through mine, but she's not quite as clingy as the others have been. I'm not talkative tonight, and she hasn't pushed it. I don't know if she really requested my company. I don't know that I could care any less. My only aim is to get this over with as quickly as possible. And then to bring Otto through the next few weeks and get out of this city forever.

"Finnick?" It's one of the Gamemakers at the next table over, calling to me amiably. "Look who's in the place of honor!" he laughs. I know they're all jealous of me, practically kissing up to the President himself, although I can't imagine why. "And not even looking happy about it!"

I take that as a warning. I have to keep the act up, have to play my heartthrob cards. I kiss Cassandra's hand delicately. "How could I be unhappy… in paradise?" I murmur.

"Yeah, give him a break," the young man beside me, who might be Cassandra's brother, says with a mischievous grin in our direction. "You know he had a busy night last night."

I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively at his sister and nuzzle her neck.

I spent all night in a folding chair beside Mags' hospital bed, waiting for the sun to rise. She has suffered a massive stroke. Her left side is paralyzed. She is incapable of speech. I played my every card to get her into the hospital reserved for the Capitol's elite, and then that simpering purple-haired doctor told me the damage was very likely permanent, and there was nothing he could do. I kicked and screamed until they sent me a different doctor who actually bothered to run some tests on that poor toothless hag from District Four. He only complied because I used my invitation to the President's party as a sort of leverage. I fooled him into believing I was Snow's very best friend, instead of his little lap dog. Even then, I didn't dare leave her alone.

My tributes and the rest of Team District Four were all asleep when it happened, but I guess they came as soon as they heard. Just to collect me, of course. But I'll never forget Annie's words when she opened the door to that hospital room at six A.M. and found me clutching Mags' hand. "You look awful," she gasped. I won't forget because nobody's ever told me that before. "Go to sleep. We'll take of it." Even then, I only left because it was that or stand up the most powerful man in Panem.

President Snow stands up then, clears his throat, clinks a spoon against his wine glass. He welcomes us to the festivities, introducing his youngest niece, the birthday girl. She is eighteen today, legally an adult, and he has spared no expense in making her transition unforgettable. Really, everyone who is anyone in the Capitol is here, along with a few nobodies, in this gourmet restaurant that the President has booked, no, probably bought for the event. The less prestigious you are, the farther you must sit from the Snow family's table. I spot several tables full of all of my victor companions who are not worthy of this great honor that I have received. Many of them are boring holes into me with their eyes. I feel claustrophobic, crammed into this plush velvet booth between Cassandra and her brother. Their mother glares at me every time I touch the girl. Snow glares at me every time I stop.

"And of course… Cassandra's new beau," Snow smiles expectantly at me as he sits. My heart slams in my chest, but outwardly I remain cool and collected.

"I can't thank you enough," I say, ducking my head politely, respectfully. "But of course, I don't deserve this seat."

Snow laughs, clearly tickled by this. "Don't deserve it? Why, have you so quickly forgotten that great show you gave us in the Games?" He looks at Crane, who nods approvingly. "And you're still clearly a favorite of the crowd. Who else has earned the honor?"

_Honor. _

I can see myself in a dim, stuffy little room under the stage of Caesar Flickerman's talk show, where thousands of people wait above, feverishly chanting my name.

"Of course I know what I fought for!" I tell Mags forcefully. "I fought for my family's honor. Pure and simple."

_Over the past three weeks, twenty-three have died. I alone survived. The Capitol doctors have spent the past two days repairing me, so that not a scar remains on my body. My mind is a different story. I'm wound tight, panicky, and I can't remember the last time I slept. But I am victorious. And now, I get to tell my story to Panem. I picture the people of my district, gathered around the television, cheering, weeping hysterically. My mother's soft brown eyes, glowing with pride in her only son. The uncle who quite literally whipped me into shape, seeing that all his hard work has finally paid off. I am about to take my rightful place in the world._

_"Family honor?" There's a question painted on Mags' face. I give her a disgusted look. She may know a lot about wilderness survival, but still, the woman can be so dim sometimes. Surely she's so old that she was a mentor even then._

_"Yes," I say as if it should be obvious. "My father. A great tribute. You remember him, of course. He died in the games when I was a baby."_

_Something flickers in her eyes. Doubt. "What year, Finnick?"_

"Finnick?" Cassandra touches my wrist. "Is something wrong?"

"Nothing, babe." I wave her off flippantly. "I just need a drink."

Snow, who's in the midst of a conversation with his cronies, suddenly holds up a hand for Crane to be quiet. He personally calls over the young server girl and tells her to put whatever expensive beverage I want on his tab. I don't actually drink outside of the Capitol, so I'm not sure what to order. I realize I've never gotten completely wasted before, but the idea is more and more tempting every moment. The less of this party I remember, the fewer ugly memories that surface right now, the better. When I order a hard drink, no one objects.

"So how many have sponsored you so far?" asks Cassandra's mother. She's trying to make polite conversation, but I can tell the hand I have resting on her daughter's waist is distracting her.

"Um, not as many as I was hoping for," I admit. "The sponsor's banquet kind of got… interrupted."

"I heard an old woman got plastered and passed out," the brother puts in, taking a long drink out of his own tumbler.

I bite my lip. "She had a stroke."

The mother shakes her head haughtily. "And God knows what that's costing us in taxes. The elderly are such a burden. I can't believe they still allow that crazy hag to mentor. She's from your district, am I right?"

I nod, clenching my jaw shut so tightly it aches.

"Someone needs to let her know you'd be better off with her retired," that disgusting woman sighs.

"Well, don't worry. She can't have too much longer," the boy puts in with a smirk.

I am burning up inside, fingers white from gripping the table. The server girl appears with a full tumbler for me.

"Don't you think you could handle these games on your own, Finnick?"

Whatever the stuff is, it burns going down.

_Mags flips through the record book, once, twice, again, finally fingering each page slowly, examining the entries thoroughly. Alphabetically. Then by year._

_I am drowning. "He's in there," I insist, clutching my hands into fists, leaning over her shoulder to double check her observations._

_After the fourth time through, she slowly shuts the leather-bound cover. "I'm sorry, Finnick-" she starts to say, but I cut her off, swearing loudly. I snatch the book from her gnarled hands and paw through it, as if paddling to keep myself afloat._

"Finnick!" She lowers the book so I have to look her in the eyes. "Finnick, listen to me. He never competed."

_I fling the book at her, striking her squarely in the temple. She reels back, holding her head, but I don't care. The weight of it all is coming down on me, the realization that I have been manipulated, not by the Capitol, not by the Gamemakers, but by my own flesh and blood. They are going to live in luxury for the rest of their lives, in the big victor's house I have won them. They will have everything they ever wanted. They sacrificed me for it._

_Everything in that room that's not tied down goes flying. I'm surprised Mags doesn't run for her life, because I am on a rampage, I am a quarter her age and weigh three times more than she does. I can still hear her speaking softly, trying to placate me, but her voice sounds garbled and distant, as if I am underwater. I _am_ underwater, breathing in big dregs of saltwater that burn like fire inside of me. I can't get a grip._

_"Stop it!" Mags is shouting now, very unwisely attempting to approach me. There is blood oozing from her forehead where she took the hit from the book. I have a vase full of potted flowers in my hand, and when she ducks I send it smashing into the wall behind her. "Finnick, stop it _right now_ before somebody hears you!"_

_She grabs both of my arms and wrenches them behind me. I'm shocked by the force her tiny frame packs. So shocked that I allow her to pin me there, jolted back to reality for a moment. I stand there, shaking with fury, gasping for air, suddenly conscious of the tears running down my cheeks. I just stand there and cry, because I am only a kid, a kid who has been lied to. And because of that lie, I have killed seven people. I don't even shave yet, and I have killed seven people I do not hate or even know. And suddenly, I don't have a reason. I don't have any reason at all._

_Mags relaxes her iron grip on my arms, but she doesn't let go. I know it is only a matter of minutes before I am called out on stage with Caesar, but she doesn't tell me to pull myself together. She only stands there beside me, wordlessly holding onto me. _

_"I wanted him to be proud of me," I choke out, because somehow, since my father did not die in the Games, he seems deader and even less capable of pride than before. "That's all. That's all I wanted."_

_"Shhh…" When I look down at Mags, I see tears shining in her eyes, too. She lowers my chin, forcing me to look at her. "Shhh. I'm proud of you. I'm so proud of you." _

_Not because I am deadly. Not because I destroyed my competition. But in spite of it._

"Waitress!" I shout, and after a moment, the skinny girl in the red uniform hurries over. "Refill." I point to my empty glass. She hesitates for a moment, probably because whatever it was was so strong and I already look sick. I slam the tumbler on the table so everyone's dish rattles. "I said _refill, _you idiot!"

I snarl at her because I can't snarl at my hosts. Her anxious eyes flicker with hurt, but she doesn't respond. She just swallows nervously and scurries away. She must hear talk like that from the Capitol customers on a daily basis. And I sound just like them. I don't know how she takes it.

Several uncomfortable seconds tick by after my outburst before Cassandra makes another attempt at conversation. "Uncle Coriolanus, don't you think Otto is definitely the favorite to win this year?" Cassandra asks smoothly.

It's not true, the stocky boy from 2 has been leading the Odds from the get-go. But Snow only nods and chuckles politely.

"You know what would be a perfect birthday present for me?" There's a whine creeping into her voice. I want to ask her if this extravagant banquet and I are not a sufficient birthday present, but she continues. "I want to sponsor Finnick's tribute."

Snow turns to me with his cold-eyed smile. Then, to my shock, he produces a monogrammed pocketbook and asks Crane for a pen. "Anything for my favorite niece."

This is completely illegal, of course, but I'm not exactly in a position to reject him. And when he tears out the slip and I see the amount on the dotted line, there's no way I'm refusing his generosity.

Otto can have his own trident.

"Thank you, sir," I choke out. I'm a bit frightened because this is a huge amount, and I'm not sure that President Snow realizes there will be no refund if Otto doesn't make it. I don't exactly feel comfortable bringing this up.

"It's my pleasure," the President says. I turn the little paper over in my hand. On the back is a little memo that determines what I can spend the points on. Sponsors can specify which tribute they want to support and what form they want the gift to take: food, medicine, a particular weapon. But Snow has scribbled only two words. _Finnick's discretion. _He has given me the freedom to spend this on whatever gift I choose.

Which means if I screw up, if Otto dies, he can hold me personally responsible for flushing his money.

I thank him profusely until Cassandra rolls her eyes. I'm being obnoxious. But I want Snow to know how badly I do _not _want to waste his contribution.

The server girl returns then with my drink. She avoids meeting my eyes, as if she's done something shameful. I wish the kid would just stay and sass me back like I deserve.

I see it again as she exits. The awkward swallow. She's an Avox. I've just insulted an Avox girl.

I want to get out of here more than I've wanted anything in my life. I tilt my head back and take a long swig out of my glass, pausing only to wipe my mouth.

And then I catch sight of someone across the room, at the Victor's Table. He catches my eye just as I slam down the last of my liquor. A wicked gleam comes into his eyes, and he holds up his own glass and pretends to clink it with mine. I can read the word all too clearly on his lips. _Cheers._ I push my empty glass away, suddenly nauseous.

I don't know who I hate more, Haymitch or myself.

* * *

><p>I seem to skip straight from drunk to hung over, and when I get back to the fourth floor of the Training Complex I collapse into bed and don't stir until almost noon. I probably would have slept through the next few days if Pallindra hadn't started banging on my door in a panic. I moan and ignore her for as long as I can before she begins to cry. Weep, wail, despair. I stumble across the room, yank open the door and very kindly and patiently ask her what the matter is. Well, that's how I remember it.<p>

"Annie's gone," she wails, pulling an embroidered handkerchief out of her pocket and dabbing the mascara puddling under her eyes. "She hasn't shown up for the morning training session. Oh, Finnick-" A fresh round of sobs. "You don't think she's-"

"Escaped? Heck, no. That's impossible," I say shortly, but I know that's not her concern. Her face crumples, because if Annie has sneaked off somewhere and found a way to do herself in, Pallindra will be the one held responsible. Replacing a dead tribute is a rare and bothersome task, and if the Gamemakers have to go through it, the escort is always in a world of hurt.

"I'll go find her," I say in a dull voice. But other than poking my head into every room of the apartment, I don't make much of an effort. Because if she's clever enough to find a way out of this place, I'm not going to be the one to ruin it for her.

I pop a couple pills for my pounding headache and head back to the hospital, feeling guilty for being away so long. The receptionist at the front door, an unnaturally thin woman with pastel-pink skin, informs me that Mags is still in the intensive care ward but they should be moving her out in the morning.

She's fine. She's stable. But I might not be for much longer if I have to make another trek through these cold, white-washed hallways. I have to steel myself for another visit, for her sagging face, vacant eyes, stone-cold expression. It kills me to be this close to someone who is so far away. I take a deep breath and silently push the door open a crack, not wanting to wake her. I'm not at all prepared for what I see in the dimness.

Mags is sitting up, awake and not alone. Annie perches on the edge of her bed, face illuminated by the beeping, flashing monitors hooked up to my old friend. She holds a bowl in one hand, ladling broth up to Mags' colorless lips with the other. Mags sips it, spoonful by tiny, difficult spoonful.

And she's humming something. A soft, lilting tune that sounds vaguely familiar to me. A sea chanty, something I likely knew a long time ago, but I'm much too far removed from my District to remember a single word. I lean my head against the doorframe, stunned.

Annie remembered her for me. After our team, the Capitol public, everyone forgot. Wished her dead. Annie remembered _now,_ when surely she has other things to be worried about. She missed training, which only confirms her death sentence.

But _why_?

I decide to beat a hasty retreat because I'm suddenly having significant trouble swallowing. But the door chooses that unfortunate moment to creak, and Annie's head whips around. She's jumpy. "Finnick?" There's a note of relief in her voice.

There's no escaping now. I wipe the emotion off my face and take a step inside. "You missed the morning training session," I say coldly.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "I lost track of time."

"Be here this afternoon. You need all the help you can get." I cough at the end to hide the crack in my voice. Despite my best efforts, I'm just not feeling the drill sergeant right now. I turn to leave, because I need a moment to stop being affected by her kindness.

That's when Mags catches my eye. The empty lifelessness I saw in her face last night has vanished, and I'm shocked to see the intensity that has returned to her eyes. She is almost glaring at me, sternly commanding my attention. Then she glances up at Annie and gives a nearly imperceptible nod.

Mags' words may have been sucked away, but I can't remember the last time she communicated anything more clearly to me.

_Annie is approved._

I hurry out without a word to either of them.

* * *

><p><strong>Look out, boy with the bread, it's girl with the broth! :) Thanks for reading, everyone! Don't forget to review!<strong>

**UPDATE: There, Cornelius Snow should really be Coriolanus Snow. My apologies, Mr. President. Please don't pick off my family and friends one by one! :O  
><strong>


	7. Training

I catch Otto's shoulder in the lunchroom that day. He's eating by himself, ignoring the other Careers' pleas for his company and the heckling behind his back, because I told him in the beginning that he will fight alone. He nods politely to me, expecting me to pass by, but I drop into the seat across from him, lean in close and start talking low and fast.

"Listen, Otto, there's been a change in plans. You're going to have an ally."

I've got to hand it to him, he takes the shock pretty well. For a Career. "An ally?" he questions, lowering his voice as well and glancing around the lunchroom at his competition. "Who?"

I take a deep breath. Might as well plunge right in. "Annie."

He leaps to his feet and all but flings the table over on top of me. "Are you out of your mind?!" he snaps, and I flinch because I don't want him drawing any more attention to us. I reach across the table and grab the front of his shirt, jerking him back into his seat.

"Keep your voice _down_, Otto, and listen to me!" I hiss. "Mags spent some time coaching her privately the first day, and she's been keeping secrets from us. From everybody. She's not what anybody thought she was."

He still seems dubious, but at least he's quiet. "Why do I care about her secrets?"

Finnick Odair has never been known for telling the truth, whole _or _nothing but. To anybody, anytime. But even though I've told some whoppers in my time, this one… this lie is unrivaled.

"Because…" I blow out a quick breath and whisper so he has to lean in even further. "She can fight."

"_What?!_" Annie shrieks, clutching the cold handrail of the staircase for support. "You told him _what?!_"

I don't answer, just continue down the dim stairwell, footsteps echoing in the stillness. I have already explained myself three times, but she still seems to be coping, apparently too nervous to stop her mouth.

"I can't _fight!_" she protests again, so loudly that I turn around with a finger to my lips. She just keeps rambling. "Finnick, he's going to find out. He's going to find out I can't fight, he's going to kill me!"

I wave my security pass in front of a little mounted scanner. "You don't handle pressure very well, do you?" I mutter dryly. I knew she wasn't prepared for this, but I didn't anticipate her reaction. The girl's bordering on hysterical.

"I don't know," she hisses back at me. "I've never _had _pressure like this before, all right?"

I input another code into a panel on the wall, and the final set of doors to the training area swish open. "He's not going to find out," I say through my teeth, "because I'm going to _teach _you how to fight!"

We're not supposed to be down here, not in the dead of night, not without the other tributes. It's completely illegal and could result in punishment for both of us. But nothing much would happen to me because I have Finnick-rights to be dangerous and unpredictable, and what more could they really take away from Annie? They could always disqualify her, imprison her, but even that would be an unbelievably generous act of mercy. I hadn't even considered until now that we could be putting her family in danger, and I suppose she hasn't either. I push the thought away. We'll just have to not get caught.

I lift a spear off the rack and toss it to her. She catches the shaft length-wise, using both hands, but the weight still sends her staggering backwards.

"But I can't-" she starts to protest, but I cut her off with a rough hand on her shoulder. I push her up against the wall, forcing her to look me in the eyes.

"Listen to me," I spit into her face. She recoils as best she can, but I have her cornered. "District Four is quickly becoming the laughingstock of Panem. Not because we haven't had a victor. Not because of me, not because of the Careers like Otto, but because of mousy little girls like you who go into the arena without learning anything and just give up. I _can't _have you just giving up!"

She searches my face, surprised by my intensity, the sudden interest I have in preserving her life. "What does it matter if I give up?" she whispers.

"Because the people of District Four expect more than that! They deserve a fight from you! We have honor, we… have a reputation to uphold!" I can't explain. I can't explain how much her kindness has messed with me. How, somehow, last night, my life, her life, Mags' life have all become intertwined, jumbled together in my mind. I have to fight for all of us.

Annie shakes her head slowly. "The people of District Four have Otto. He can give them their honor." She struggles to replace the spear in its compartment. "They really can handle watching me die on day one."

"Well, I can't! I _can't _watch you die on day one!" I burst out, shoving her away from me. She stumbles backwards into the weapons rack, and although she keeps her balance, the rack topples over with a crash. The clattering of the blades drops away into silence that's only broken by my ragged breathing. "I'd have killed you," I murmur, unable to meet her eye. "And I… I can't kill anyone else."

I wait for her to storm away, to mock me, to accuse me of caring about the lives thrown away during the Hunger Games. More specifically, to accuse me of caring about _her._ But she doesn't breathe a word, and when I turn back around, I see her knelt on the ground, sorting through the jumbled weapons and arranging them back on the rack. When she looks up at me, I'm sure I see a tiny glint in her eyes. A lighthouse over the stormy green sea. She hefts the spear up to her shoulder.

"You know I won't ever be able to throw this," she says simply.

"I know." I breathe a sigh of relief and hold out a knife with a blade as long as my palm. "Try this one."

* * *

><p>Annie can throw.<p>

It's the most pleasant news I've received all night. She has an arm, she has good aim, she could fight if she set her mind to it. It solves at least one mystery about her. She grew up in the poorer part of the district, by the wharf, where the kids spend their free time flinging nets into the open water, hauling catches, growing muscles in exchange for a meal while all of us rich kids kicked a rubber ball around. Those of us who weren't training to volunteer, of course.

I watch her, the skinny little girl with the big, pretty eyes whose life has been ripped apart, turned upside-down by a tiny slip of paper in a glass ball, and I realize how little I really know about her. Not where she lived, not who her family is, if she has parents, brothers, sisters, friends. A boyfriend. Not what she loves, what she hates, what she cares about, or what she was planning to do with the rest of her life.

She is only three years younger than me. We probably went to grade school together, although I sure as heck never took any notice of her. But does she remember me? Does she remember the day I volunteered for the games? I wonder if she ever played on my beach, dove off my dock, visited my mother's cloth shop.

I wonder if she knew Cassandra. They might have been friends.

Well, I may have found one skill, but when it comes to hand-to-hand combat, Annie's hopeless. I can't get her to punch me and she doesn't even seem capable of violence against the practice dummies. After a very long, frustrating hour of accomplishing nothing, I tell her to take a breather.

"Tell you what," I say, plucking a knife out of a dummy and handing it back to her, because she really needs it. "You get in the arena, and I'm gonna send you a big pepper shaker. And then _no one_ will be able to touch you."

It's the first light moment we've had in our intense training session. She laughs a bit breathlessly and slides to the ground, wiping a sheen of sweat off her forehead.

"You're really not like that, are you?" she says, suddenly glancing up at me.

"Like what?"

She smirks. "Like you were on the train."

I can't help smirking back. "What, you mean wildly and unnervingly sexy?" I say smugly, running a hand through my hair.

"I meant a sleazy little creep," she shoots back.

Maybe that should sting. But it's just so _refreshing _to hear it from someone besides myself. Despite my best intentions to glare at her, the corner of my mouth turns up in a little smile. I can't think of a worthy comeback.

"Nah, not generally," I say honestly enough, sinking down beside her. "It's mostly a publicity thing."

Annie frowns at me. "The girls, too? Where do they come from?"

I don't answer right away. "It's just for the audience," I say evenly, avoiding the question.

"Then why did you try to kiss me when it was just us?" she demands. Of course, we come back to that again. I shake my head.

"_You_ were the audience, chickadee. Everybody's the audience."

She just sits there, fingering the knife handle, contemplating that for a long moment. "I don't want to be your audience," she says quietly. "Do I have to be your audience?"

That's an awkward question. "You don't… wanna… Okay." I shrug halfheartedly. "Your request has been noted. You aren't part of my audience."

I don't know exactly what that accomplished, but she seems satisfied. We just sit there on the cold floor of that dimly lit training area in a comfortable silence for a while. We don't have to talk. I'm not required to entertain her, impress her, to seduce her. It's the most relaxed I remember feeling in a while, at least in the Capitol. I wish there was a picture window down here. We're both missing home again.

Annie's the one that finally breaks the quiet. "My grandpa had a stroke. When I was a little kid." She peers over at me in the dimness. "You know he could understand everything we said?"

This surprises me. "Really? The doctor really didn't tell me much about it…"

"Well, it only messed up part of her brain. She can still think, Finnick. She just can't express herself anymore. But she's going to figure out how to communicate with you."

I ponder that for a moment, remembering that little nod in the dark, wondering just how she meant it to come across. "Yeah… I think she's working on it…" I clear my throat. "How… how clearly can she think… exactly?"

Annie shrugs. "You'd be surprised."

I turn that over in my mind. "So… your grandpa…?"

"Oh. He died a long time ago," she says dismissively. And then slaps a hand over her mouth in regret. "But not from the stroke! Not from the stroke, I promise. He was like a hundred. Oh, _Finnick_…"

I have to smile because she's so apologetic over her little slip-up. "It's okay, Annie. I get it." I hesitate. "What about the rest of your family?"

That's a rough subject. Her shoulders slump forward with heaviness. She shakes her head, eyes trained on the floor. "I wanted to write them letters," she whispers.

"Do it," I say simply. She gives me a look of disbelief. "I'm in District Four a few months out of the year. I'll deliver them personally."

This is also strictly forbidden, of course, but since when has that really deterred me? Annie just studies me intently, afraid to believe me. "Do you promise?"

"I swear." I figure I owe her as much, for taking care of Mags, for letting me not kiss her.

I watch her suspicion melt away, replaced by a little flicker of hope. "Thank you," she breathes, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks. "Thank you so much."

I cough uncomfortably and check my watch. "No problem. Hey, you'd better get to bed, you have a big day ahead of you. Don't you perform for the Gamemakers?" I've lost track of the days in all the chaos.

She nods and wipes her eyes quickly. "I'm glad you helped me. I might have a little something to show them tomorrow." She accepts my hand up off the ground.

"Yeah, well, I'll try to work some time in before your session tomorrow. I have a few more tricks up my sleeve." I take her knife and twirl it in the air before catching it.

"If you cut yourself, you should know I'm not a very good seamstress," Annie quips. I laugh aloud.

We reach the top of the fire escape staircase and slip in the side door soundlessly. No one would be surprised to catch me sneaking in with a girl at this hour. But I want to spare Annie from the rumors. Especially because when we whisper good-night, for a moment, just a moment I'm sure that she's going to throw her arms around my neck and give me a hug. But then she must think better of it, because she hurries away down the hall and shuts her door.

I can live with that.


	8. Surprises

**Hi guys! I've been home sick most of the week so I've had a ridiculous amount of time to work on this story! Count your blessings, huh? I'm already a couple of chapters ahead. Be sure to stick around and find out what happens!**

****I appreciate the thoughtful reviews you've written! :D Made my day!  
><strong>**

* * *

><p>T minus two days.<p>

This habit I have gotten into in the Capitol, staying up all night and waking up before dawn the next day, doesn't actually leave room for any sleep. Because by the time I've got Annie back inside and put away all the evidence of our training, the sun is getting ready to rise and I have to make sure Mags is still breathing. And then I promised Annie that I would get her up early to train some more, because we know she needs it. She has no idea how lucky she is, because Finnick Odair rarely even remembers the promises he's made to a girl the next morning.

We're up on the rooftop, red and gold streaks of sunrise breaking over our heads, and she's flinging knives at that suicide-preventive force field that surrounds the edge of the roof when I hear footsteps approaching, the creak of the door in the stairwell. I grab Annie's left arm, motioning for her to be quiet, and the knife that she's throwing flies off course. It bounces off the force field and shoots back toward us. We duck down and watch it stick in the wall behind us.

"Don't _scare _me like that!" she snaps. She's been on edge all morning, but I can hardly blame her, considering she's gotten three hours of sleep with only forty-eight until the arena. I just nod to the doorway behind her. Otto steps up hesitantly.

"Am I… interrupting something?" he asks, but I hear the real question. "_This _is my ally?"

"Yes," I say shortly, to both questions. "We'll be down in a minute." I continue to stare him down until he disappears back down the stairs.

"Finnick, he knows," Annie says after a moment. She walks over and wrestles the knife out of the wall, frustration carving lines on her brow. "He knows I can't fight."

All traces of the friendly conversation we made last night are gone. We aren't concerned with making small talk or getting to know one another or with anything besides how small a target she can stick with a blade.

"I'll talk to him about it," I answer calmly. "He listens to me."

Annie huffs. "I appreciate this, I really do. The extra training, the nice words, the letters, but… what's the point?" Her eyes smolder, because she's smart enough to know that she can't trust me for too much longer. But there's a longing there, too, because she needs somebody to trust.

"I promised Mags I'd give you a sporting chance." I never said any such thing aloud, but somehow this feels like the right answer. I turn to follow Otto down to our apartment. "I'm gonna go get breakfast."

I can still feel her eyes drilling into my back. "You're gonna have to choose eventually!" she calls after me. She's angry, confused. Hurt, even.

I have to choose? Nah. The arena will take care of that for me.

* * *

><p>The tributes have a final training session that morning, followed by their private displays of talent for the Gamemakers. I really should go out, meet with more sponsors, but Pallindra brought me a whole bunch of checks from the party the other night. I guess some people took pity on Mags and I after the ambulance arrived. Either that, or Otto's remained at the top of the Odds chart all week. Anyway, I'm satisfied for the time being.<p>

Mags has been moved into the rehabilitation wing of the hospital, where I rarely see another living soul. Because in the Capitol, the doctor can heal most everybody right away. Either you're home the next day, or they don't try. Period.

I test the call button on the bed to make sure it's even hooked up to the nurse's station. Then I position myself in that hard folding chair and take my old mentor's hand. Her eyelids flutter open for a moment and she looks at me, apparently confused.

"Hi, Mags. How are you doing?" I whisper.

She answers with a single, incomprehensible phrase. But it's a relief to hear her voice. She dozes off again and I flip on the little TV mounted on the wall, keeping the volume low. I haven't been very tuned in to the public's opinion this time around the bend. Even when I've been out among the public, I've had other things on my mind. But the single channel in Panem isn't highlighting tributes or the Capitol crowd right now.

There's Caesar Flickerman with his powdered moss-green wig and eyebrows. He looks like the thing that crawled out of the swamp. Like something from my Games. And he's giving a long spiel about the almost sacred consistency that the Hunger Games provide to the years of our lifetimes. He motions to the empty chair beside him. The victor's seat. Judging by the average length of the Games, that glorious throne will be filled in three weeks or so.

For the first time, I really allow myself to imagine Otto sitting in that seat. Otto taking my place as a mentor. What will my life be like then? Finally I will be able to return to Four, to live out the rest of my life at home, in peace. But what's even still there for me? Old friends who haven't been able to stomach the Capitol change in me. My mother, who will undoubtedly want to reconnect so I will finally allow her to move into my vacant mansion. Annie's parents sobbing as I deliver her letters, thanking me profusely, silently hating me when I turn my back. Mags is the only one I want for company. She used to spend the majority of her year in Four anyway, because she was never required to attend the elite Capitol parties. But she may not be returning anytime soon, because there's no telling how long her rehabilitation could take. And I don't know if she'll ever regain speech.

Who will put me in my place now?

I'd always imagined returning to District Four for good, having a normal life, getting married. But if I'm honest with myself, it's not going to happen. The years of serving Snow have screwed me up much more than I ever anticipated. I will never be able to have a healthy relationship with a girl. I think of my interaction with Annie that first day, how special the idea of romance was to her. And how all of it, the innocent hugging, kissing, holding hands that's so precious to her, means absolutely nothing to me. Zero. It's just another thing the Capitol took away from me.

Somehow, it's hard to imagine myself as an old hermit by the sea, with the stars and their rippling reflections as my only companions. But it's got to be better than Haymitch's bottles. And certainly better than living out my life here.

It's late afternoon when Caesar announces that the last tribute, the girl from Twelve, has just finished her session with the Gamemakers. The scores will be broadcast on television tonight. This is my cue to return to the apartment to congratulate my tributes and run damage control if Annie gets a low score despite my extra help.

I turn off the TV and say good-bye to Mags, who is still in a haze which could be due to her medication as much as the stroke. As I pass the nurses' station, I give all those frilly Capitol women in white uniforms a dark look, so they know I mean business. Then I'm gone.

Otto's laid back in the sitting room's recliner when I arrive, hands folded behind his head like he's pretty pleased with his sweet self. I raise my eyebrows at him. "How'd it go?"

"I got a ten," he says smugly, although he has no way of knowing this yet.

"Ah. Excellent. Give yourself a pat on the back," I say. He doesn't pick up on my sarcasm. "Where's Annie?"

"Where else? Holed up in her room, hiding." Otto gives me another one of those _I-sure-hope-you-know-what-you're-doing_ looks. I pretend to ignore it.

"Did she seem upset?"

He shakes his head. "No. She was all smiles. Said she has something to work on, though."

I rap on her door, and her little-girl voice calls out. "Just a second! Don't come in yet!" Half a minute later, the door swings open and she emerges with a handful of envelopes in her hand. Her letters home.

"Finished already?" I ask in a low voice.

"I didn't go to sleep last night. I started them after training," she admits. She tries to hand them to me. "I need to tell you a couple things for when you deliver them-"

I shush her quickly, because she doesn't realize that I must keep this favor a secret. I fold her hand back around the papers. "Hold onto them for tonight. You can tell me later."

At dinner, I demand to hear the details of their private sessions. Each tribute was given only ten minutes to make an impression. The kids from my district are lucky enough to go near the beginning of the day, but always after One and Two have put on a spectacular show for the Gamemakers. This is usually reflected in slightly lower scores for my tributes. But they both seem pleased with the job that they did. Otto brags that he bulls-eyed a practice dummy with a spear from thirty yards. He practically juggled the hundred pound weights that were provided. He showed off a couple of martial arts moves that look more intimidating than they really are. Then he turns to Annie with a smirk and asks, "Did you play your flute?"

She gives him an acidic smile. "No," she says evenly. "I threw things."

I cut Otto's next sarcastic comment off with a glare. "And how did that go?"

She nods, pleased, but she's starting to crack under Otto's doubtful expression.

"Well, I guess we'll just see in your scores, right?" I push my chair back from the table, shaking my head at the servant boy who offers dessert. "It's just about time for the program to start."

Annie and I are both a bit reluctant to switch the picture window over from the calm ocean scene to the flashy Capitol broadcast. Claudius Templesmith, the official announcer for the past umpteenth Games, has joined Caesar in introducing the program. They chat and joke for a few minutes before getting down to business. Then they read down the list of tribute names and scores.

District One. Those pretty, flashy kids who shone at the chariot ride, both receive eights. The awkwardly tall girl from Two, whose name happens to be Shannon, gets a nine. And Blade, her tank-like companion at the top of the Odds, pulls a ten. Yikes.

"He tied me," Otto says, trying not to appear intimidated. "Big deal."

But Otto only receives a nine. It's a great score, but I can tell he's frustrated with himself for not achieving his goal. He sits bolt upright in the recliner, almost launching himself into the air, and then paces around the room, muttering to himself in indignation.

Annie curls her knees up to her chest, squeezing her eyes shut and moving her lips silently in that quirky way she has. Both of us hold our breath as her score is announced.

"Annie Cresta. Six."

Six. Well, I'd hoped for better and feared much worse. Really, it's only a couple of points behind the Career level. But it's not _at _the Career level. Otto whirls around, eyes suddenly narrowing. Annie draws back, trying to make the plush couch cushions swallow her up.

"Six?" he spits, taking a few slow steps toward me. "You _said _she could fight."

"She can," I say calmly. "Training scores don't reflect everything accurately. I only got a seven myself, back in my games." I'm a little scared that Annie's going to wet herself if he doesn't relax.

"You got a ten," Otto hisses, because he has studied my Games so thoroughly. I shrug like I was close enough.

"Did I? See, nobody even remembers the scores."

Otto just moves closer, grimace growing, until he's blocking the screen. I give him a warning look. "Sit down, kid. I need to see these scores." His eyes fill with rage at my dismissal. "Otto, I'm not messing around. Get. Out. Of. My. Way."

He doesn't sit, but he does wander around behind the couch, swearing under his breath. I reach for Annie's hand and give it a little squeeze as she tries to slow her breathing. The low-scoring tributes from Five and Six tick by. Both of Johanna's tributes pull sevens. That's pretty impressive. And a distinct threat. The girl from Nine gets a decent score, and so does the boy from Ten. And then before I know it, the scrawny kids from Twelve are appearing onscreen, signaling the end of the broadcast. I give a little start.

Haymitch's boy pulled a nine. Well, that's unexpected.

Otto snatches the remote from my hand and switches the TV off. "I'm not doing this," he declares. "I'm not going to be her ally."

"Well, that's pretty stupid of you," I shoot back. "You have no _clue _how invaluable a companion will be in the arena. With you two working together, I can send you double the supplies. You two can provide warmth and protection for one another-"

"She'll _protect _me?" He paces around the couch and bends down in front of Annie until their faces are mere inches apart. His lip curls back in disgust. "You gonna protect me, little girl? Can you fight?"

She nods, bravely meeting his eyes. "I can."

"Prove it!" he hollers.

"I will," she says, voice wavering. "Back off and let me stand up."

He complies, and she jumps off the couch and darts back into the kitchen. For a moment, I'm so afraid she's going to lock herself in the bathroom and seal her own fate as a coward. Otto hurries to the doorway, growling. "When are you gonna prove it to me, Annie?"

"Eleven o'clock," she calls from the kitchen. She suddenly comes back into view, pulling back her arm and sending a knife whizzing toward Otto. He ducks instinctively, but she's not aiming for him. The blade whistles past him and shatters the glass of the antique grandfather clock in the far corner of the room. It sticks firmly in the old, yellowed face. Halfway between the eleven and twelve. Annie folds her arms across her chest and gives a satisfied nod.

There's a moment of stunned silence. I get up and dislodge the knife before Otto has the chance to and examine the mark in the enamel. "Half-past," I say dryly, quirking my eyebrows at Otto, who is still speechless. "I think that's fashionably late."

He turns on his heel and storms out of the room. I hear a door slam down the hall, and immediately burst out laughing. Annie gives a little giggle, too, and hurries over to me. I take her hand and we laugh until she has tears running down her cheeks.

"Nice one, chickadee," I say when I can breathe again. It's my old nickname for her, but this time I use it with a note of respect. Because really, who saw any of that coming?

She doesn't respond right away, taking a moment to wipe her eyes and catch her breath. "Thanks for being such a great teacher, Finnick Odair," she says, weaving her fingers through mine.

"Thank _you_ for being a great student, Annie Cresta." I grin at her for a moment before something distracts me. The little jolt of warmth that radiates from her palm to mine when she squeezes my hand.

So many surprises today.

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><p><strong>Awwwww! :D <strong>


	9. Interviewed

**Hello again! Certainly didn't mean to taunt you with chapters I've completed! I would love to post these as fast as I can churn them out, but you REALLY don't want to see these before they're proofread... they're frightening... **

**I'm trying to stay one chapter ahead because I have to go back to school and life and I'd hate to see this story get lost in the shuffle... :( Gee, when I started this I had no idea that the Hunger Games was getting 100 submissions an HOUR! Thanks for finding me in all that :)**

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><p>T minus- Eighteen hours.<p>

"Oh, I love it. Gorgeous. Wow, you look good! I tell you, Dramas is a genius!" I take a few steps into the prep room and slowly circle around Annie, framing her with my hands and nodding approvingly. "You are gonna _sparkle _in your interview!"

Annie shoots me a dark look. "Quit it!" She crosses her arms self-consciously over her chest, still dressed in the sweats provided for her this morning. "I'm still just waiting for my stylist."

I give a loud gasp as if I'm taken aback. "You haven't even seen him yet? You're kidding me!" I rub my chin thoughtfully, still taking her in. "No, I don't believe it. When did you get pretty?"

"I didn't!" she protests, the faintest hint of a smile creeping onto her lips. "I'm the same as always."

"Yes. Yes, you did, too." I drop into a chair across from her. "I swear. Just since you came here. Maybe the better lighting?"

"Oh, shut up!"

"No, that's not it… it's gotta be something in our water!" I insist.

She wrinkles her nose at me. "It's something with your eyes!"

Well, she's right about one thing, at least. _She's_ not the one who has changed.

In the lull in the conversation, Annie reaches down under the prep table and pulls out her envelopes again. "Can I give these to you now? I'm afraid they'll get swept up out of my hiding places."

I nod and take the pile from her. "Did you write more?"

"Yeah," she admits. There's over a dozen here now. I flip through a couple on top.

"Sorry. I just kept thinking of people." She watches me closely. "Don't read them, all right?"

"Of course not! I'm not going to pry," I say indignantly. "But I need to know where to make my deliveries." I continue to flip through the stack. One for her mother, her father, her grandmother whom I suppose outlived her grandfather. And ten or so addressed to names I don't recognize. School friends, brothers or sisters, maybe cousins. And then a single letter with the name _Derek_ scrawled in fancy cursive. The rest of the envelope is covered in tiny doodles. Intricate patterns of hearts, flowers, stars.

So there _is_ a little fisherman's son back home.

I tuck that one underneath and find, to my surprise, the last envelope is addressed to me. I hold it up and give her a quizzical look.

"Well, I can read this one, can't I?"

"No!" she bursts out, then turns a bit pink. "Well, yes. But not yet. Not until after the Games, all right?"

"Okay," I say quietly, shoving the envelope into my pocket. The painful implication is impossible to miss.

At that moment, Annie's stylist, the illustrious maroon-haired Dramas, flings open the door and makes a grand entrance, trailed by the rest of the prep team. They ignore me and head straight to tonight's television star. "Good day, Annie! How are you this fine evening!" It's not a question, but just another loud exclamation in his heavy Capitol accent. "We have so much work to do, and very little time in which to do it. Take off your clothes." He claps suddenly. "Now, please!"

Annie casts me a terrified glance. But I'm already halfway out the door.

I go and find Otto, whose prep team is just putting the finishing touches on his outfit. He screams at them that no, he doesn't want his fingernails buffed, and they gather up their files and clippers and scurry away, terrified. Then he just sits there, absently poking himself with one of the two thousand shark teeth glittering in rows along his costume. I hate to think of all those poor animals, trying to gum their prey to death now.

We don't acknowledge each other for a long time. Ever since Annie's display with the knife last night, he's been coolly polite to me. He's finally stopped questioning my decision. And early this morning, when I came out to breakfast, he was apologizing to her.

Apologizing. This alliance might actually work out. I tried to convince Annie to play up her natural charm a bit then, just bat her eyelashes at him a little. That would be the quickest way to ensure he stays on her side. But of course, she didn't go for that idea.

Because she's not an actress. In fact, neither of these kids can act. Part of my job involves coaching both Annie and Otto on their public appearances, but Otto has this, like everything else, already figured out. And it seems to be working for him, playing the dim-but-deadly angle up as much as he can. His stylist seems to be following along with the shark theme. Nobody really thinks of sharks as crafty and intelligent and yet you know better than to cross one.

But Annie- finding Annie's angle was a struggle. She's cute, but not alluring. Sweet, but not ditzy. Spunky, but not fierce. But somehow she has wormed her way under my skin. I tried to pinpoint what exactly she did or said to me that won me over, but it was so gradual. Phrases swam in my head. _You know nothing about love. I can play the flute. You look awful. I miss that smell. I don't want to be your audience._

The one thing that all these have in common is the gut-wrenching frankness about them. That's the reason we couldn't come up with an angle. She already had one. She's painfully honest.

"You want me to tell the truth?" She seemed shocked by the suggestion.

"Yes. No. Well, not the whole truth. You don't have to say whatever you're thinking. Just don't try to force anything out that's not true. You're not good at that," I explained patiently.

We had spent the entire morning of our preparation for the interview sitting cross-legged on the floor of the apartment living room with the gulls crying in the background. I had a couple of lengths of rope, and I was trying to multitask and teach her a few survival skills because she had missed out on Mags' lectures. While I asked her questions in a mock interview, I demonstrated some basic knots, working my way up to complex snares and nets. It soon became apparent that she already knew everything I was showing her. I was right, she did grow up fishing on the wharf, and her fingers are smaller, lighter, faster than even mine. There was no point to continuing the lesson, but the repetitive motion was familiar and comforting to both of us and gave her hands something to do while she tried to cope with memories of home. Eventually, I gave her thinner rope and even a small piece of wire to work with and took mental note of her answers.

She has three little brothers. The youngest one is six. An older sister who is engaged to be married later in the summer. Annie was supposed to be her maid of honor. Her dress still hangs in the closet at home. It's pink like the first rays of sunrise, and she has a little band of pearls to wear with it.

Caesar Flickerman would have never been so curious about her family life, but I kept asking because she kept answering. The more she talked, the faster her hands flew, tying and untying until the rope started to fray. Her father catches the gourmet shrimp that Capitol people gorge themselves on. But the quotas that are demanded of him are too high. Too many shrimp have been harvested, their numbers are dropping. Her family is in debt to the Capitol. Her mother cries herself to sleep at night.

I was surprised at how flat she kept her tone, how emotionless her face stayed. But her fingers spun more frantically, never pausing. She was only focused on that rope. I looked over and frowned as she tied a complex series of knots between the thickest rope and that hair-thin wire and gave it a tug. I hadn't seen anything like that before, and I expected it to slip out right away. But it only pulled taut.

"How did you do that?" I asked.

"This?" Annie held up the tangle of rope and wire and examined it. "Oh, we call it a Merman's knot. It's the best way to tie two completely different materials together." She caught my bewildered look. "Like… a fish and a man. A merman."

I held up my own piece of rope. "Show me."

There are only twenty minutes now until the interview is scheduled to begin. We gather in District 4's area reserved back stage, the same stuffy, dim room where I threw the record book at Mags five years before. Annie is the last to arrive, trailed by Dramas and her prep team. Those knot-making hours come immediately to mind, because she is a mermaid. I can tell that's the theme Dramas is shooting for. The strapless green dress has the same shimmering pattern of scales that she wore for the parade, but it fits tightly down to her ankles, giving the impression of a long, graceful fin. Her brown hair has been carefully curled and blow-dried to perfectly controlled wildness. There are little seashells pinned up in her hair.

"You look nice," Otto tells her flatly. He's still trying to make up for his misplaced rage at her. She looks a whole lot better than nice, but she's made it clear that she doesn't really appreciate my compliments.

"I feel like I'm in a clam shell." She fusses with her skirt before sitting down beside me.

"What? They didn't get you in the seashell bikini?" I ask innocently.

If only Annie could shoot daggers with her hands the way she could with her eyes.

"Are you ready for this?" I say more quietly.

She sighs, laughs a little under her breath, fidgets with the skirt again. "I'm so nervous."

"Picture them in their underwear," Otto supplies. "That's supposed to help."

Pallindra appears to collect us in a panic because there's only two minutes to camera. Otto quickly follows her out. "Just pretend that Derek's in the audience," I tease as Annie stands up and fluffs her flawless unruly curls.

"Derek?" She just gives me a strange look. "You didn't read the letters, did you?"

"No," I admit.

She pauses in the doorway, a knowing smile twitching on her lips. "Okay," she says with great relish. "I will imagine Derek's _beautiful_ face in the crowd and address _every _answer to him." And if it didn't come from sweet, innocent Annie's never-kissed-a-boy lips, I would swear she was flirting with me.

The lights have gone down when I enter the auditorium, and I feel my way up the stairs to my reserved seat with the District Four crew. Pallindra and I are crammed between the mentors and escorts from Districts Three and Five, and I have to sit beside some fidgety little man with glasses who keeps muttering to himself. I lean over to listen once because I think he's addressing me. He just glares at me like I'm interrupting a private conversation.

The lights come up on the stage, and Caesar Flickerman sits there with his blinding smile, nodding and drinking in the applause like a man lost in the desert. He introduces the show. Aren't we lucky to be here, don't we feel like something marvelous is about to happen, aren't we ready to meet the tributes, yada yada blah? Of course the audience cries a resounding yes to every question before it's even completed. And then the interviews begin. I finally begin to put the tributes' faces with their names.

The girl from 1, with her dazzling smile and winning personality. Crystal. She yammers on about how beautiful the Capitol is, what a pleasure it is to be among such fine people. Then the boy, Castor, who follows her lead. Blond, blue-eyed, and beautiful, they seem almost identical. But Castor's hair is shorter, and his costume not quite so low-cut.

Then there's Shannon, with her stony-faced glare and raspy voice that make me think she could easily sing baritone. And Blade, who grunts at the beginning of every sentence. Halfway through the interview, he pulls open his suit coat and reveals rows upon rows of knives lining the inside. The crowd "ooo"s and "aaaah"s. Of course, he's not allowed to have those right now. But who am I to point fingers?  
>The wide-eyed little munchkins from Three. They're the youngest, maybe thirteen or fourteen. Both of them answer most of Caesar's questions with a blank stare.<p>

Then Annie. She's shy and awkward at first, stumbling her way through the first few questions. And then Caesar asks about Four. Something in her demeanor changes, she opens up immediately with tales of her sister's engagement and her little brother's new retriever puppy. I have to hand it to myself. I nailed her angle. Every painfully honest little comment, especially about the wedding- _I've never worn pearls before_- leaves the audience sighing sympathetically. And the nervous way she fingers the little seashells in her hair… She's adorable. When her time ends, she's explaining about her father's floundering shrimp business and how the victory money will really be what they need to turn their lives around. The Capitol people shake their heads in pity for this poor, brave little girl. Her story may not be quite as riveting as the little boy volunteering to avenge his father's death, but they like her nonetheless.

By comparison, Otto is dull. He doesn't have any hobbies outside of training for battle, he doesn't seem to have friends or a special girl to talk about. The only thing he says relating to his family is that he hopes they cheer extra loud for him, as if he'll be able to hear it.

I continue to match names with tributes throughout the night. The girl from Johanna's district makes a distinct impression. Huge hair, loud mouth, cheeks peppered with dark freckles… she reminds me of Cassandra. The first one. The dead one. She boisterously proclaims her strengths in front of her competition. She knows five different types of martial arts. Well, that means her mentor is holding out on her then, because Johanna Mason knows at least seven. I search for her in the rows behind me, but she hasn't made a reappearance since she attacked me at the banquet days ago. That's not a good sign.

The girl from eight is up, and her heavy stage makeup hasn't quite managed to obscure the red rash that has flushed her gaunt face. Nor could her stylists hide the fact that she's shaking with fever. Caesar advises her to sleep well tonight and drink plenty of fluids, and the crowd applauds sympathetically. I can't imagine she'll feel any better when the gong sounds tomorrow morning, and even if she recovers in the arena, she's lost any chance for sponsors. I have to flinch when the scrawny boy from eight sits down, because there are little red spots forming on his neck, too.

Lovely. Whatever they have, it's contagious.

One memorable moment in the interview comes when Caesar asks Eleven's girl her thoughts on being reaped. She's older, probably close to eighteen, tall and graceful with her smooth dark brow knit in thought. "If it had to happen to somebody," she says slowly. "I'm glad it's me."

Caesar's eyes light up at this great subject material. "Care to explain further?"

"I don't have a family," she says curtly, as if it's just another fact of life. "Better me than somebody's daughter. Or somebody's sister."

Finally. We're in the home stretch. There still has not been anyone any more dim and deadly than Otto. And Annie's holding onto the pity vote. Last district. The girl from Twelve takes the stage, and Caesar asks her the same opening question he's used with most everyone. _What are you fighting for? _And that pale kid with the protruding ribs just starts talking as fast as she can. When her timer goes off, the boy picks right up where she left off.

Together, they tell a tragic story. A devastating mine accident that winter that destroyed so many lives. The gaping mouth of the tunnel that glowed dimly for three days and nights, belching black smoke, until the last of the fire died out, leaving the victims charred beyond recognition. Leaving so many widows and fatherless children. And now, the economy has plummeted, people are starving. If only one of them could win and bring back a little portion of the Capitol's wealth…

The tributes paint a different District Twelve than Haymitch always brought to mind. Instead of a valley full of smelly goat herds and not enough soap, I picture the grieving close-knit community, really more of an extended family. I smell the smoke, feel the hunger. It's brilliant. Too brilliant a story to be told by chance. And yet, I can't imagine Haymitch coherent enough to come up with such a plan.

But one way or another, the audience is reacting. I hear the big simpering tears of Capitol people pretending to imagine another person's pain. There's a sniffle beside me. I look over to find Pallindra dabbing her eyes lightly, so as not to smear her turquoise eye shadow.

"Those poor dears," she murmurs, because this story is somehow so much more tragic than the fact that these kids are going into a gladiator battle tomorrow morning. I know that if she was allowed, Pallindra would sponsor these kids without a moment's hesitation.

So much for holding the sympathy cards.

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><p><strong>Stick around! The Games start next chapter!<strong>


	10. Gong

**Hello again everybody! I know my updates are slowing down a bit, but don't fear. I've already worked out a good portion of the end, I don't plan to leave you hanging! I'm just struggling to work out the Games portion of my tale. I salute Suzanne Collins! It's not actually that easy to keep track of so many different kids and whether they are alive or dead... :P It's frankly pretty morbid work.**

**Anyway, Johanna's back! Although you'll have to stick around for a while to find out what her issue is, anyway. Well, one of her many issues... :)  
><strong>

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><p>T minus- Four hours.<p>

_Isn't this a shame?_

It's what every mentor thinks when they wake up on the morning the Games start. _Isn't it a shame that the Capitol makes me do this? That these kids have to die?_

Those are the thoughts that fly through my head as soon as my eyes open. The same spiel of self-pity I go through every year. But this year, it's worse, so much worse than just the typical resigned regret. It burns down to my bones and in the pit of my stomach.

_Why don't you just stop feeling sorry for yourself? _I tell myself impatiently, swinging my legs out of bed. _After all, _you _volunteered for this._

Yes, the Capitol's bullying everybody. The Capitol's making me do these horrible things. But I am part of the Capitol, a cog in the well-oiled machine. I walked into this willingly, and I am one more person who helped make the Games a success. To this day, when people see me, they cheer for a great victor. They cheer for the Games to produce more celebrities like me.

Otto slams down breakfast in the apartment dining room, pausing only periodically to rub his hands together eagerly, stretch his calves to warm himself up, call for more eggs. He's on his fourth plate now. I stood over Annie early this morning until she managed to choke down a dinner roll and a couple of pieces of dried fruit, but from the gut-wrenching sounds coming from the bathroom now, I know that my efforts were useless.

"Are you ready for this, Otto?" I ask, pulling out the chair beside him. I'm too restless to sit, though.

"Oh yeah!" He chugs another glass of orange juice and grins at me, upper lip covered in pulp.

"Do you remember the healthy fear thing we talked about the other day?"

Otto shakes his head. "I have a healthy caution," he corrects me. "I'm not afraid."

"Yeah, well, you should be," I murmur, slamming the chair back under the table. He gives me a strange look as I leave the room.

I wait a few minutes after the retching sounds stop, until my own stomach is settled, before rapping lightly on the bathroom door. "Annie, it's me. You okay?"

The door opens slowly and her face appears, white, drained of blood. She leans against the door frame, taking long, shuddery breaths. "Finnick," she whispers, and those watering green eyes meet mine. "I can't do this."

"Yes, you can, Annie," I say gently. "Just take a deep-"

"I can't go out there!" She motions to the kitchen where Otto is still gorging himself and runs her hands through her already straggly hair. "Not like this! I'm a wreck. I swear, Finnick… I'm gonna lose it."

I grasp both of her hands, work them out of her dark tangles. "No. You're gonna be all right. I'm here for you, all right?"

She swallows hard, studying me, studying her fingers knit through mine. "Promise you won't forget me in the arena…" she pleads. "For Mags?"

She takes a unsteady step toward me, and I impulsively draw her into a tight hug. "Of course not," I murmur. She collapses against me, burying her face in my chest, shaking silently. "I promise, Annie," I whisper into her hair. She smells like vomit and sweat and tears and all of the things that the other girls mask with perfume.

And I don't want to let go.

Yes, I am doing all this for _Mags'_ sake, because she wanted to help Annie. Of course, she wanted to help her for _my_ sake, to keep me from getting attached.

See how well that worked out?

I can't ride the hovercraft to the arena with the tributes. They still have an hour or so to get ready, but I am supposed to be at my station setting up fifteen minutes ago. So I finally take Annie's shoulders and pull her back. A little color has finally returned to her cheeks, although she's still breathing heavily. Isn't there anything I can do to make this easier?

For a moment, I seriously consider kissing her. But a kiss from Finnick Odair doesn't mean anything, anyway. She is too spectacular for something that common.

So I just give her another squeeze and tilt her head so she has to look at me. "Chin up, chickadee," I say softly.

And then Pallindra is calling our names, calling us apart. I swear the last thing I am going to hear before I die will be Pallindra's clipped Capitol accent calling, "Come, come, now, you're going to be late!" And then she'll usher me into the dark beyond.

I hate being rushed away from this, because this will certainly be the last time I see Annie in person. I haven't had time to think of any great parting words. But it's too late, the bathroom door is shut, and I'm going to the Games.

The Mentor's Mansion consists of a flowery outdoor courtyard for meeting with sponsors and a gigantic circular building for everything else. The one main room inside is circular with a high, vaulted ceiling that doubles as a huge television screen. It will show the footage of the Games that is being broadcast live across Panem. The area along the curving wall has been partitioned into twelve large cubicles, each with its own array of computer monitors and a dashboard covered in blinking lights and buttons that would bewilder a newcomer. But I'm an old pro at this. I drop into my high-tech swivel chair and spin in a circle, just for grins, before taking inventory of my space.

It's a lot like a prison cell, really. Same size, if you ignore the opening between the partitions. There's even a little cot along one of the sides, and it looks about as comfortable as a prison bed. But of course, we're not really under lock and key. Mentors are free to come and go as they please, and since most districts have a pair of them, they trade off, one constantly keeping an eye on the tributes and the other socializing with sponsors, giving a live interview, or getting a well deserved night's sleep. But for those unfortunate lone mentors, like Haymitch and, I just realized, myself, well… I don't really know how we're supposed to handle this.

I power on all my monitors and the two television screens mounted side-by-side on the wall. Right now, the TVs show only static, but from the first moment of the Games, they will each provide live footage of one of my tributes around the clock. Annie's screen is on the left. Otto's on the right. That's the way the whole station is set up, the two screens and the two safe boxes full of the paper checks that sponsors have submitted. Annie's empty one on the left, Otto's crammed full on the right. Monitors show information that's useful for helping both of them. One will display weather readings from the arena, one will pinpoint my tributes' exact GPS locations, one will show each tribute's medical stats. The dashboard in front of me is touch screen. I tap with one finger and open up a digital catalogue full of the gifts I can choose from to send into the arena. I swipe through it quickly. Different sections contain pages and pages of medical supplies, camping gear, packs of dried food. A set of finger puppets. I rack my brain and try to come up with a life-or-death situation that would necessitate a handy supply of finger puppets, but I come up blank. I'm not as creative as the Gamemakers, I suppose.

One of the screens suddenly beeps as new information fills the display. Annie and Otto have each had a tracker injected into their forearm, which allows me to monitor heart rate, body temperature, even blood sugar. Once the games start, the chips will also provide a GPS signal.

There's little to do now except wait. I roll my computer chair out of my cubicle and spin some donuts in the large, open middle of the cold tile floor. Somewhere in the blur of the room whizzing by, I spot a girl entering with a dirty blond ponytail trailing behind her. I stop my chair and wheel myself over to District 7's station, where Johanna has just taken her seat and begun to inspect her own screens.

"Hey," I call, rolling up beside her. "Haven't seen you in a while." She doesn't acknowledge me, but I watch her face until I'm content that she's uninjured from her run-in with the authorities.

Mentors don't do a whole lot of visiting during the Games, because the data on our screens is private and it's considered terrible sportsmanship to snoop. But the digital countdown projected on the ceiling still shows about an hour before the gong, so I tap a couple of buttons on her screen and start flipping through her catalogue absently. "First year," I comment. "Figuring everything out?"

This time I get a low grunt as she pretends to be completely absorbed in dusting off her dashboard lights, arranging rubber bands and paper clips in their containers. "Well, if you need a hand with any of the equipment, let me know." I hesitate before adding, "I like your girl. She's got spunk."

Johanna snorts, but still won't look at me. "More than yours."

I nod patiently, biting my tongue. "Good luck." Here I can't resist adding the grating Capitol accent. "And may the odds be _evah_ in your-"

She whirls on me, eyes blazing. "Shut up, Odair."

I start to roll backwards through the partitions. "Gotcha. I'm cool, babe. Let's do lunch sometime." I wink, pointing and clicking my tongue at her. "I'll call you. No, no, no, _I'll _call _you._"

She's armed only with a rubber band, but I think it leaves a welt. Rubbing my eye, I cross back over to District 4's compartment, but not before I hear loud laughter drifting from a few cubicles down. Brutus, one of the District 2 mentors, is smirking at me with his arms folded across his massive chest. _Let him laugh now, _I think bitterly. _He won't be amused when Otto has his kid in a headlock. _ But if I'm honest, this really isn't a pleasant mental image either.

I double check, triple check my equipment. Still twenty minutes. And then I sit, reclined in my chair, twiddling my thumbs, trying not to let the anxiety crack through to my face, because there are cameras in here, too. And Finnick Odair is always above it all.

Ten minutes. Otto and Annie are below the arena, waiting underground with their stylists, whispering their final prayers, hopefully reviewing the instructions I gave them. They're simple enough. Take off running away from the Cornucopia. Absolutely do _NOT _join in the bloodbath battle for the meager supplies. We have plenty of sponsors, I will send them whatever they need. Find shelter. Find food. Don't drink moss-coated water…

Five minutes. I find my fingers sneaking into my stash of rubber bands, absently working them into slipknots, pulling them out again. I hum under my breath, something soft and eerie, the tune I heard Annie murmuring in Mags' hospital room. A sea chanty. Something about… a young girl… a young maiden in the grasp of the storm… _with the high winds a' blowin', from the south they be… rowin'…from the Isle of… of…_

Annie's never going to wear those pearls.

The image of her in that pink bridesmaid gown comes out of nowhere and squeezes at my throat. And suddenly I'm the one clutching the threshold weakly, saying, _I can't do it. I can't go through with this._

But it's too late. The huge screen overhead flickers on with the Capitol seal, and one by one all of the mentor's displays do the same. I take a deep breath, recover my winning smile, flash it toward the nearest camera. And then Claudius Templesmith hollers over the intercom.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Seventieth Hunger Games begin!"

The ring of tributes appears on every screen, frozen on their platforms for sixty seconds. They face the field surrounding the Cornucopia which is strewn with goodies like food and tents and long-shafted spears that only get more tempting the closer you proceed. In a few moments, the center of this circle will be covered in bodies.

_Forty-five seconds. _Run. I mouth the word to Otto and Annie, who stand with three tributes in between them. They take in their surroundings as the precious calm moments tick by. Rocky ground crumbling away to the south. A dense cluster of trees to the west, directly behind them. And… smoke on the northern horizon?

_Thirty seconds. _Clouds hang low in the sky. My thermometer registers a balmy seventy-five degrees, though the tree branches ripple in the strong wind. What is this place? What kind of fire is that smoke coming from? Have the Gamemakers already planted an obstacle?

_Twenty seconds. _Otto glances toward the tree line, then looks over at Annie with eyebrows raised. She gives him a weak thumbs-up, and he returns the gesture. They have an alliance. If he breaks it, I will kill him myself.

_Ten._

_Nine._

_Eight._

_Seven._

_Six._

The last thing I remember before the gong is Annie standing up straight on that platform, one strand of hair anxiously curled through her fingers. And then there's the crash reverberating through the air. She stumbles off her platform, scrambling for the forest beyond. She looks back over her shoulder for Otto, but he's not there.

He's taken off toward the center of the Cornucopia with a grand, guttural war cry. Oblivious to Annie's retreat. Oblivious to the sounds of my rage in the Mentor's Mansion.

And oblivious to the blade whizzing straight toward his head.

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><p><strong>Oh no! :O Don't forget to leave a review! Much appreciated!<strong>


	11. Day One

**Hi everybody! Thanks for all the reviews, comments, tips... Just FYI, I made a tribute list in English class the other day. :) I was totally paying attention. I think I'm good to go, got most of the rest of our tale planned out. You'll have to excuse me if I have to go back and change something along the way. Well, I won't keep you in suspense any longer...**

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><p><em>Day 1… 10:00 A.M.<em>

_"OTTO!"_

Annie and I shriek at the exact same moment. He ignores her panicked cry, racing forward dramatically, diving and rolling under the double-edged boomerang in the nick of time. It sticks the kid behind him, the boy from 9, and he collapses instantly. And then Otto's in the center, screaming, dodging blows, grabbing a spear and thrusting it in front of him.

"You _idiot!_" I scream, grabbing his screen and shaking it in frustration. He's fighting, the moron, after I told him _do not, DO NOT _join the bloodbath. I grab my head in both hands and curse under my breath.

Well, fight, then, Otto. You better hope you're as great as you think you are.

Annie hesitates, thirty yards from her platform, fifty yards from the woods, panting. She's torn between my directions to run from the Cornucopia and to stay with Otto at all times. She shuffles in place, then turns and stumbles back toward the fight, pausing once she passes the ring of platforms where they all started. She bends down and grabs the closest weapon the Cornucopia has to offer- a small, round, metal object that she brandishes by the handle like a club.

"Otto!" Annie screams again over the sickening crashes and thuds. "_What the heck _are you doing?!"

"Be right there!" He raises the spear and flings it forward. _Thud. _ District 7's boy falls. Annie presses a hand over her mouth and lurches back toward the woods. _Just run, Annie_, I urge her. _He'll catch up._

Another thud. And another. One of my screens beeps congratulations and brings up pictures of Otto's victims. He has just killed three people in less than a minute without batting an eye.

Annie flies into the woods as fast as her little bird-legs will carry her. This forest is dense and full of towering, ancient-looking trees that don't resemble any kind I've ever seen. For ten long minutes she runs before she's far out of sight and earshot of the Cornucopia. Only then does she stop, gasping, legs wobbling, and lean against a particularly thick tree trunk. She sucks in the muggy air and turns her sweaty face skyward.

"You see what I have to deal with?!" she shouts at the treetops. At me, I presume.

"I hear you, chickadee," I mutter.Oh, Otto, Otto, Otto, the intense pain and suffering you would be in if I could reach you.

I can't, of course. I can't punish him for flouting my instructions, and he knows it. He takes his sweet time picking through the Cornucopia's offerings before he heads after Annie, weighed down with an assortment of weapons, several backpacks full of supplies flung over his shoulders. He doesn't have any trouble tracking her. In her flight, Annie left a clear trail of footprints and cracked branches in the thick underbrush. It's about half an hour later when he stumbles on her, still slumped against the trunk, clutching her round metal weapon. He doesn't offer any word of explanation, just tosses something onto the ground in front of her. She picks up the large black belt and examines it. It's lined with an array of knives in every size and shape you can imagine.

"You can thank me later," Otto says with a grin.

Annie glares up at him, and her upper lip curls back in disgust. But she just leans her head back on the tree, too weary to argue. "What are we supposed to do now?"

"Disappear," Otto answers, tossing Annie a backpack and hiking another back onto his shoulder. "Get as far from the others as we can and make camp." Finally, he has something right. "Unless you want to go back and fight, of course," he teases.

She shoots him another look as she stands and dusts herself off. "I think you've gone looking for enough trouble today, don't you?"

They start off deeper into the forest. I finally allow myself to take a breath, because my GPS is showing that they're more than half a mile from the nearest tribute, the boy from Six who was wounded at the bloodbath and doesn't seem to have much time left.

Overhead, the live feed is centered on the fighting at the Cornucopia, which wears on for another hour before all the survivors who are not Careers have weighed their options and escaped to some shelter in the arena. When the dust clears, Blade wipes off his razor-sharp boomerang in the grass and calls for his companions to help him bag the supplies. There's Shannon, Castor, and another girl. I assume it's Crystal at first, but as the cameras zoom in, I see a freckle-smattered face instead of a dazzling grin. It's the girl Johanna mentored, the one that claimed to know martial arts. The name… starts with an M… Maria or Melissa…

"Did you see me?" the girl seems to call to the empty air. "See me, Johanna? Matilda's a big girl, she fought in the bloodbath! Matilda didn't even die!" She has a familiar cynical edge to her voice as she addresses her mentor.

"Was there some question about this?" growls Shannon.

Matilda laughs bitterly, crossing to the center of the field to pry a crossbow out of the fingers of one of the dead. "Oh, Johanna didn't bother to show up for my training. Didn't think I'd be useful, I guess. Lucky for me you guys disagreed."

A few feet behind her, one of the other fallen tributes sits up silently and reaches for the sword laying beside him. With no warning, Matilda whirls around and lands an airborne kick directly to his temple. He slumps to the ground again, still this time.

"Hey, it's not that often I meet someone who terrifies me," Castor quips good-naturedly. "We're not about to let that go unrewarded." Blade just grunts and chucks a heavy pack at him to carry.

I wheel my chair backwards out of my cubicle and catch sight of Johanna, who is shaking her head and rolling her eyes at this unfolding scene. I know she didn't have any choice about missing the training, and I can't imagine what sort of agony she faced from her run-in with the Capitol authorities. I feel another twinge of curiosity about her disappearance, Crane's comment at the party, her resentment toward me. But I have lost any chance to talk peacefully with her. After all, Otto just killed the boy from her district, and if I approached her now, she'd think I was gloating. And Johanna Mason doesn't take too kindly to gloating. It's probably about time to drop the pretense of friendship with her, because that's really all she's ever seen it as. A pretense.

The cannons start then. Thirteen shots, indicating thirteen dead the first day. Over half already. Maybe we can hope for short Games, which are preferable to the month-long torment we suffered through last year.

Now that all the battles are finished, the live feed alternates between broadcasting footage of all the surviving tributes. The four Careers, of course, minus Crystal, plus Matilda, setting up camp a few hundred yards from the Cornucopia. Haymitch's boy that pulled the surprisingly high score. The wide-eyed young girl from Three. The wounded boy from Six, crying out for help from a sponsor that isn't going to come. The girl from Eleven also survived, the solemn orphan who seemed resigned to her fate but is now going to great lengths to construct a lean-to out of the dry branches. And the boy from Eight, who's obviously irrational with fever because he's trying to start a fire in the middle of the muggy woods.

And of course, Annie and Otto. From time to time, a red light on my dashboard flicks on, indicating that one or both of my tributes are being televised at that moment. A  
>murmur runs through the other mentors when they realize my strategy.<p>

"Allies, huh?" Brutus calls to me. He snorts, rubbing his stubbly chin thoughtfully. "Allies with each other but not with us?"

I shrug lightly. "What can you do, Brutus?"

"Yes, leave the poor boy alone, Brutus," snaps Enobaria, District Two's female mentor. Female being a relative term, of course. She juts out her chin, which is almost as hairy as Brutus's, and gives me a pitying look. "He's demonstrated that he can kill off his tributes just fine without our help."

"Yes, thank you for that reminder, ma'am," I snap. I'm ready to retreat back into my cubicle when I catch Haymitch staring at me, sloshing white liquor into his glass and all over the front of himself.

"What?!" I call. "Do you want to comment on my strategy, too?"

He hesitates for a moment. "Star-crossed lovers," he says simply, knocking back half the glass at once. I just frown, confused.

"What are you babbling about now?"

Haymitch shakes his head as if I'm awfully slow. "You should have said they were star-crossed lovers. You would have gotten _so _many sponsors."

I stare at him as if he's just suggested I rope my tributes together by their necks and light them on fire. "You are an _idiot_," I snarl. He just shrugs and guzzles straight out of the bottle.

For the next three hours, Annie and Otto move steadily away from the Cornucopia in a southwesterly direction. They've slowed their pace considerably, stepping lightly, taking care not to leave a path. These woods are still eerily silent, because although dense plant growth covers the area, I've hardly seen a hint of wildlife, only a few buzzing insects.

They stop once to snack on some of the dried jerky Otto retrieved in one of the backpacks, but Annie's still too shaken to eat much. Which is a shame, because I'm watching the stats from the tracker in her left arm, and her blood sugar is low, probably from throwing up breakfast. She's obviously struggling to keep up by late afternoon, but Otto has pushed too far ahead into the brush, waving his spear dramatically in front of him, to notice her. He's almost out of her view when she finally calls out, "Can we make camp?"

He turns around and frowns at her, at least waiting for her to catch up. "Already?" he asks, a note of disgust in his voice, because the sun has barely begun to dip into the horizon.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs. "It's been a long day."

He hesitates, just taking her in for a moment. Her face is pale and sweaty and streaked with dirt, and she's trying to catch her breath and hide the fact that she's winded at the same time. She sure doesn't seem like she's going to be much protection tonight. His brow furrows, and I just hold my breath and watch that spear clutched in his hand. Because if he hasn't followed my instructions so far, what's to keep him faithful to this alliance?

"Okay," he says finally. "Sure. We've covered a lot of ground."

They make it to a small clearing in the trees and throw their packs down. Otto dumps their supplies, taking full inventory for the first time. As much as I hate to admit it, he's really struck gold. A couple of sleeping bags, a thin emergency blanket, plenty of jerky and dried fruit, and, of course, the knives and the spear. He glances over at Annie with a raised eyebrow. "What did you grab again?"

She reaches over and grabs her metal contraption, wipes the dirt off of its smooth, round face. There's a little handle on the side, and she pulls it open to reveal rows and rows of tiny black boxes.

It's a waffle iron. The power cord dangles uselessly from Annie's hand, and she has to give a sheepish smile.

"Nice," Otto mutters sarcastically.

"You could have at least been solar-powered," Annie scolds the little kitchen appliance.

Otto tilts his head, eyeing the iron. "Maybe you could bash somebody's head with it."

She picks it up and waves it around defensively, smothering a laugh. "If I had one of these when Finnick Odair tried to kiss me-" She feigns a devastating blow, and my hand instinctively flies to my temple. "Wham!"

Otto snorts. "Don't laugh too hard," Annie warns him smugly. "That's gonna be you someday if you win this thing."

I make a face. "Thanks, guys," I say dryly, because the cameras always train on you if your tributes are talking about you. The audience likes to see your reaction.

Both kids choke down a bit more jerky, and by then twilight is settling through the trees. The Capitol seal appears in the sky, followed by the images of the dead tributes projected over the holographic moon and stars. The deaths are old news to the mentors, but the tributes watch them closely, eager to see who has survived to fight another day. After the first couple of pictures, though, Annie curls her knees up to her chest and stares at the ground.

"Huh," Otto says when the broadcast is finished and the last notes of the Capitol anthem are fading away. "I thought I killed four." He frowns as he unrolls his sleeping bag at Annie's feet. "I thought I got the kid from Six." Annie doesn't respond, just pulls her legs in closer and sighs. She kind of rocks back and forth, another of her little anxious habits.

Otto volunteers to take the first watch. Relieved, Annie crawls down into her sleeping bag, cocooning herself in the flimsy fabric as a chorus of insect calls begins. After a few minutes, her breathing begins to slow. Otto sits upright against a tree trunk a few feet away. He pulls Annie's belt over and studies the assortment of knives, then plucks a flat rock off the forest floor. He pulls the knife out of the first sleeve and starts to sharpen it.

The shrill, grating sound echoes in the little clearing. And in the light of the rising moon, I see it. His dark eyes flicker over to Annie's quiet form. Then back to the knife. Another scrape, another shriek from the rock. My fingers tighten on my dashboard as I watch his eyes flit back to her, watch him finger that knife blade that glints in the starlight, watch her shoulders rise and fall rhythmically.

_Do it, I kill you, _I tell him over and over again. Because he's defied me, humiliated me enough already.

And because I can't watch her die on Day one.

It goes on like this well into the night. He moves on to sharpening Annie's other knives, and I just sit there, breathing murderous threats over his head. Long after the lights go dim in the Mansion, my eyes are glued to the flickering screen, muscles rigid with anxiety.

It's long past midnight when Annie sits bolt upright, eyes wide, hair flying into her face. "Did you feel that?" she gasps when she places exactly where she is.

Otto quickly replaces her knife in its sleeve, rather guiltily. "Feel what?"

"The shaking." She traces a finger through the dirt and pebbles beside her sleeping bag. "It was shaking."

Otto shakes his head. "It was probably just your knees knocking. Do you want the blanket?"

She takes a deep breath. "No, I'm fine. I'll stay up and watch now."

He hesitantly agrees and burrows into his own sleeping bag. "Wake me if anything happens."

"You'll be the first to know," she replies.

I let out a sigh of relief when Otto's heavy breathing fades into the quiet. When the knives are back in Annie's hands. But I don't join him in sleep. My eyes stay trained on that screen until dawn.

It's a long first night.

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><p><strong>Fooled ya! ;) I wouldn't kill Otto on Day One! I haven't gotten you all so thoroughly attached to him yet! <strong>

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	12. Allied

**So I'm breaking my rule to stay a chapter ahead of you guys... just because I want to post this! This isn't one of my very favorite chapters, it's not really filler but it's mostly building up to things that are to come later... I killed most everybody during the bloodbath, so my games aren't that exciting right now. I wouldn't make a great Gamemaker! But hopefully you're reading this because you love and Annie and Finnick and not because you love to hear a lot of deaths described!**

**Enjoy! :)  
><strong>

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><p><em>Day 2… 6:03 AM<em>

It's a volcano.

That wisp of smoke on the horizon rose from one of several dark, gaping vents on the mountain's side. Lava oozes down the opposite face, a slow, glowing, creeping river that absorbs everything in its path. The girl from Three camped on the cracked, brittle ground in the valley below it last night, well out of the way of the lava flow. She's smart. No one is going to come looking for her here. We haven't seen a volcano in the Games since the second Quarter Quell. The year Haymitch won. That awful year when twice the usual number of kids died.

We all hate volcanoes.

While I'm considering an eruption, landslide, a swelling wave of magma, Three's mentor, that fidgety man I sat by during the interviews, instantly begins muttering to himself about the possibilities of fissures, fault lines, seismographic activity. He doesn't know I'm listening through the partition, and I hear him debating how to best go about using the volcano as a weapon. Setting it off. Deliberately. I can't believe my ears. Hopefully he will not find a way to communicate this to his girl, because it's really a boneheaded move. Genius, but boneheaded.

The station on the other side of me has been abandoned, the computers shut down, the lights turned out. Both tributes from Five died in the bloodbath. The mentors are already pulling out of the train station on their way home, where they will try to blot everything from their minds until next summer. Just like I've done for the past four years.

But not this time. This time I'm bringing home a victor. One day down, an eternity to go.

Annie wakes Otto at dawn, and they eat a bit of dried fruit, pack up their supplies, and kick leaves and dirt over their camping area before setting off again in the same southwesterly direction. Their greatest need at this early point in the Games, with the hot sun steadily climbing overhead, is to find a source of water.

The map on my computer screen this year is so crude it could be a child's drawing, but I'm trusting the thin blue ribbon to represent a river or a stream. They'll run into it eventually if they continue downhill. The curvy line snakes down the landscape from a larger blue blob. I'm presuming that's a lake of some kind, possibly an inlet of a bigger body of water, because the force field that encloses the arena seems to cut through the middle of it. It's always a battle between the alliances to secure the best water sources, but it seems that this arena has plenty to go around. That's probably too good to be true.

By midmorning, the air is muggy and miserable. The land around my tributes begins to slope steeply into the river valley. The trees thin out and then disappear altogether, and the farther down they proceed, the stranger the landscape becomes. Odd protrusions of rock from the hill. Little pools of bubbling hot water. Gaps in the stone that leak steaming water vapor or perhaps some other more noxious gas. Annie and Otto wisely stay away from the steam, sticking to their present course.

They reach the bank around noon and drop beside it, sweaty and exhausted. Even Otto's breathing hard in this heat. The running water is so clear that sunlight filters down to the smooth rocks on the stream bed. It's so clear and fresh and pure-looking that my tributes, who both passed survival training with flying colors, don't think to ask any questions. I watch them drop to their knees and suck in big handfuls and can't help wincing. I only hope that all the tributes are going to be living off this water, because the Gamemakers just can't afford to poison every one of them.

They sit and rest for an hour, District Four kids to the core, both of them content just to watch water in motion. It's Annie who finally announces that she's hungry and sets off a few yards downstream to where the stream opens into a wider pool. Sure enough, there are fish swimming just below the surface, light glinting off the scales on their backs. This isn't great news, because fish do things in water that makes it less than drinkable. But I'm watching the live feed overhead, and the Careers just reached the bank five miles upstream. They're drinking, too, which is a relief. If the stream serves any evil purpose in the Games, it's to draw tributes closer together for battles, not to kill them off with illness.

Annie retrieves a length of rope from her backpack and sits down on the bank a stone's throw from Otto. She goes to work weaving a small net, quick fingers darting through loops, pulling knots tight. Neither one of them attempts to make conversation. They are completely uninterested in getting to know one another, because they're not stupid. This alliance can't last forever. And it's never a good idea to befriend your district partner.

Annie pulls up her net a few minutes later, revealing two decent-sized, brightly-colored trout. She tosses one to Otto, and he catches it in his palm and immediately takes a bite out of the raw flesh. Scales and all.

"Ew." Annie wrinkles her nose. "I'm gonna cook mine."

Otto frowns at her, water and fish-juice dribbling down his chin. "How?"

She shrugs. "I'll think of something." And with that, she picks up her waffle iron and carries it up over the crest of the riverbank. Otto rolls his eyes and sinks back against the sandy bank, taking another satisfying bite of trout.

He's just picking the bones clean when his nose twitches, and he sits up straight, sniffing the air. Whatever he smells, it's so intriguing that he leaves his comfortable sunning spot on the bank and hurries up over the incline. "Annie?"

Annie's squatting beside one of the hot springs up over the hill, holding her open waffle iron out over it. Her trout, properly gutted and with the scales removed, lies sizzling on the checkered cooking surface.

Otto bursts out laughing, but it's not derisive or even teasing. He's genuinely impressed. "You're a genius!" he cries, bending down beside her to watch the fish fry. He leans in close and whispers in her ear. "Wanna make me another one?"

She smiles at him, proud of her own resourcefulness. "If you catch it!"

Otto quickly pretends to lose interest, because he has no idea how to tie a knot or make a net. It's easy to forget that he didn't grow up on the water the way Annie and I did. No, his childhood was spent in the Academy, completely dominated with preparation for this day. But Annie insists that he comes and sits beside her on the bank. Ignoring his objections, she patiently guides his fingers through a few simple knots. After they have a workable net, she lowers one end into the pool and lets him do the catching.

"Hey," Otto grins, pulling up a wriggling catfish. "I think I'm getting the hang of this."

Annie grins back. "My star pupil. Now let's clean it."

I keep an eye on the Career pack over the live feed. Matilda has surprised me by taking the lead, and to my relief she's directing her allies upstream, away from Annie and Otto. That girl truly is frightening. She's from the lumber district and armed with an axe that she found in the Cornucopia, and she has a habit of swinging it as she walks, chopping through the tree branches with terrifying war cries. I don't know what they feed the girls in Seven, but they sure turn out strong and tough and with major anger issues.

The afternoon is fairly quiet. Only one sound rings through the still, stifling air just as my tributes finish cleaning up from lunch, washing the waffle iron in the stream. It's the cannon shot that indicates that somewhere, somehow, another tribute has died. Of course I get more information than that. It's the boy from Six who finally succumbed in the middle of the woods, half a mile from Annie and Otto. One of my little screens lights up with congratulations. The boy was Otto's kill, because he inflicted the wound back at the Cornucopia. None of the tributes in the arena will learn this until the night's announcements, though.

Annie and Otto agree that the squishy mud of the river bank is no good place to make camp, but they don't want to backtrack across the open field towards the Cornucopia. Thankfully, the other side of the brook is lined with shady trees that would serve well as shelter for the night. My tributes pick their way across the shallow stream bed and through the deep black mud on the other side. It's as thick as tar and covers the ground well into the forest as well, seeming to suck the huge, protruding tree roots down into the mire, out of sight. But that's not the only thing it's sucking. Otto and Annie have to lift their feet high with every step to unstick their Games-issued hiking boots. But that's exhausting, and it's not long before they give up and just wade through the muck, letting it soak into their shoes and clothing.

"Finally," Otto murmurs, peering ahead into the trees. "I think I see dry land. Follow me." He slogs forward as quickly as he can, but a sharp cry behind him causes him to hesitate. "What's the matter?"

"Otto." Annie's voice quavers with the strain of keeping calm. "I'm stuck."

He turns around and frowns at her, sunk to her calves in the thick mud, which has taken on an increasingly silty quality. "Oh. Move… move your feet a little…"

"It's quicksand!" Of course it is. After only one death in the last twenty-four hours, the Gamemakers are pulling their switches.

Otto's lack of alarm at this revelation is obviously infuriating Annie. She tries to raise one leg, only to find that it sinks deeper when she lowers it again. She manages to wade a few feet forward, but every step sucks her a little further down. The blackness has already crept up around her knees. Otto's eyes widen in realization.

"Hang on…" Otto struggles a few steps back towards her, but she holds a hand to stop him.

"Don't! You'll just get stuck, too!"

There's a terrible moment of silence as they look at each other, try to decide how to solve this. He can't come back to get her. She can't move forward without getting pulled down. The next logical move would be for Otto to turn and leave her there. He could always claim helplessness, return to Four without her death on his conscience. But he's not thinking along those lines. In fact, I can see the wheels slowly turning in his head. He pushes his way through the mire to the nearest tree trunk and grabs a hold. Every muscle in his body strains as he pulls himself up, finally breaking the suction on his feet with a loud "pop". He steps onto a protruding root and shuffles his way around the trunk to Annie.

"Grab on," he calls, bending a massive branch down until it's level with her head. She clings to it for dear life, pulls herself forward to the root that Otto is standing on. He takes hold of her arm and yanks it roughly. There's another popping noise as her feet slip out of her boots, and she flies forward, colliding with Otto, knocking them both into the tree trunk. They stand there, clinging to each other, muscles shaking with relief, and watch the mud swallow her hiking boots and close up on top of them.

I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding. Because it's not going to be any easier to watch on Day 2. Or Day 3. Or Day 12. I should have known that it's only going to get harder.

"Thank you," Annie whispers, wrapping her arms around Otto's barrel chest and squeezing tight. "Thank you so much."

He grunts over the top of her head. "We're losing daylight."

Otto leads the way, shuffling down to the end of the root, hopping to another, placing a foot in the quicksand as seldom as he can. Annie follows close behind him, mimicking his footsteps with a bit more grace. They reach solid ground in a matter of minutes, and Annie drops to her knees and touches the hard-packed dirt gratefully.

"Do you want to camp here?" Otto asks her, tapping his foot impatiently.

She shakes her head. "I want to get as far away from that muck as possible."

But they don't make it far before nightfall. As great as it was that Annie didn't lose her life, losing her shoes would prove a bigger disadvantage than I had imagined. She slices her foot on a stray rock and has to stop to wrap it in moss and leaves, and by then the sky is dark and the Capitol seal flickers overhead. She and Otto clear the forest floor of brush and boulders and spread out sleeping bags as the boy from Six's face blots out the stars. He's young, maybe fifteen, and pretty scrawny. Annie shivers and looks away, but Otto just nods and clucks his tongue triumphantly.

"I knew I stabbed another one," he says.

Annie glances up at him in surprise. "Stabbed him? When?"

"At the Cornucopia. In the fight."

"Yesterday _morning_?" Annie wails. "He died this afternoon!"

"And I'd bet you anything he was crying like a baby the whole time," Otto says with a snort.

Annie's reply bewilders me. She swears aloud. It's certainly the first time I've heard a sound like that from her innocent lips. Otto scowls at her, equally surprised. "What?"

"Everyone's watching this, Otto," she mutters. "Everyone in Panem."

"So?"

"His _mother _just heard you say that!" she bursts out. Then she lowers her head, puts her hands over her ears as if she doesn't want to hear Otto's response. But I know she's listening.

He studies the ground, watches an ant crawl under his knees. "My mistake," he says finally. "I didn't mean to upset you."

But he can't take it back. Nothing they do in this arena can be taken back.

Annie takes the first watch tonight. She'll wake Otto for the second. I take both, of course. It's rougher than I thought it would be to mentor alone. I've always had Mags with me to give me a break, to split up the night watch the way my tributes are doing. She was my ally. But now everything rests on my shoulders. I've been up for well over twenty-four hours straight, obviously I can't keep this up forever. But the Games are so unpredictable, I could take an hour-long nap, wake up, and find both Annie and Otto dead. That's not an option. If I have to rest, I'd better do it during the day, when they're both awake and alert.

So I prop my chin in my hand and settle in for another sleepless night, eyes glued to my screens. It's nice to have my tributes allied, because their screens can now show me both of them at once, from two different angles. I see two sleeping Ottos and two watchful Annies and the longer I stare at them, the more of them I see. My vision doubles as I struggle to hold my eyelids up.

I guess I do doze off, because I vaguely hear footsteps outside my cubicle and my head shoots up guiltily. Pallindra's chipper voice calls out, "Oh, Finnick! You've got a visitor!"

I glance at the clock on one of my screen's displays. It's not quite midnight. I can't imagine any sponsor that would be visiting at this hour. But there's a squeaking sound behind the partition, and Pallindra pushes Mags' wheelchair right up to my station. I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the color that is back in her cheeks, the familiar wry smile on her lips that drooped limply the last time I saw them.

"Mags!" I jump out of my seat and bend down in front of her wheelchair. "Mags, how are you?" Her lips just twist into a bigger smile, and she takes my hand in her wrinkly, spotted one. She's better, yes, but I can't help but notice the new layer of lines etched under her eyes. She really is old. She's been old ever since I met her, but she's never seemed it until now.

"Mags is making an incredible recovery," Pallindra speaks for her, although her tone is more weary than pleased about it. "She's recovered some movement in her left fingers and toes. And she's just begun speech therapy."

I grin at Mags expectantly. "Oh, no, I've got to listen to the old buzzard screech at me again?"

Mags makes a face at me. "Rowboat," she retorts gleefully.

"Yes, yes, I know, rowboat," Pallindra says, exasperation creeping into her voice. _"That's all she can say,"_ she mouths over the top of Mags' head. I nod at her, trying to keep the little stab of pain in my chest from showing on my face.

"But she can write a bit. We put a notepad by her bed. She couldn't sleep and asked if she could come keep you company."

I feel another stab, this time of guilt, because in the past two days' activities I haven't been able to visit her, and to be perfectly honest, I forgot about her. I'm very fortunate that I have Pallindra watching her back, keeping her treatment sessions lined up. I thank her, and she leaves us there in the dimness to watch the screens.

We don't say a whole lot. Well, she doesn't say anything, and I speak only occasionally to give her the details on the Games up to this point. She just nods slowly to everything I say. Even so, her presence is reassuring and I don't let go of her gnarled hand.

I try hard not to nod off again, but Mags pokes my shoulder once and I jump like I've been jabbed with a needle. She points to me and then closes her eyes and folds her hands as if in sleep.

"I can't," I say regretfully. "Not until morning." She just points to herself and then at the screens, staring at them with her eyes open wide.

I raise an eyebrow in half-amused doubt. "You're going to watch?" She nods seriously. I hesitate, because I'm just so tired. "Can you wake me up at the first sign of… anything?" She nods harder, and even though she's an elderly woman in rehab from a stroke, she looks a lot more alert than I feel right now.

"Okay," I finally say. "Wake me if you get sleepy." I lay down on the little cot in the corner and shut my eyes against the live feed plastered on the ceiling. Last I saw, it was showing the girl from Three arranging rocks in some sort of mysterious pattern for who-knows-what devious purpose. I'm just drifting off when Mags' hand shakes my shoulder. I sit bolt upright. "What? What happened?"

She just grins a gummy grin at me. "Oh… you were practicing?" She nods proudly. "Excellent." I settle myself back on the cot and fold my hands behind my head. The live feed shows Annie waking Otto up for his watch. I really think I made the right decision with them.

It's nice to have allies.

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><p><strong>Any thoughts? Any room for improvement? Don't forget to review, my darlings!<strong>


	13. Let Go

**I've never put a disclaimer on here. You all know that the genius woman Suzanne Collins has created the vast majority of the characters in this story. Her writing is brilliant!**

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><p>I'm running.<p>

That's the way it always starts, with me running, crashing through the trees away from some invisible enemy, breathing like a train. It's always dark and wet. I'm bleeding pretty heavily from the wound in my shoulder, but I'm running so hard and fast I almost can't feel it. Running always keeps the pain away. My fingers curl protectively around the handle of my new silver trident, the prongs glinting in rare patches of moonlight. I wave it in front of me, tearing down the tangles of vines in my path.

There's a _snap _up ahead of me, a net springs up high into the branches of the weeping willow, a shrill scream. A girl's scream. It's just a girl trapped in my net, a small one, unarmed. Not a threat, and yet everything here is a threat. Her face is familiar, but then nothing can be trusted.

_"Finnick!" _she shrieks, hands waving frantically, because she doesn't think I recognize her. But it's too late. I don't want to do it, but this is the only way to win. And _I have to win_. Everything inside me is pulsing with the thought. Winning is everything. I clutch my trident tighter, raise it over my head, shut my ears to her wailing. _"Finnick, please-"_

Her last words.

_Day 3… 5:56 AM_

I shoot straight up on the cot, cold sweat pouring down my back. A nightmare. No, _the _nightmare, the one I had successfully kept at bay for several years now. It finally caught up with me. All this time I have spent working so hard to forget, to make excuses for myself, to not care anymore, it's all completely undone in less than a minute's restless sleep. Because it's as if it just happened. The emotions roll through me as if the trident has just left my fingers.

_Finnick, please_- what? _Finnick, please do it fast? Finnick, please don't kill me?_ I'll never know.

I glance around my dimly-lit station, trying to slow my breathing. Trying to re-enter reality and leave my nightmares behind. Trying to forget that today's nightmare is just yesterday's reality.

I run, but not fast enough. It still hurts.

Mags has nodded off in her wheelchair, and I mentally kick myself for letting a sick old woman keep watch for me. Annie and Otto are fine, though. Dawn hasn't yet broken in the forest, but they're both already up and packing, ready to be on the move again as soon as it's light. I just watch them, so much more at ease with each other now, exchanging playful banter as they try to fit the waffle iron in a pack. Gee, aren't they precious? Isn't it so great how they're bonding? Maybe they'll even become friends.

As if friendship means anything when it boils down to two in the arena. No amount of time together, no bonding, not even attraction for one another will be enough when the chips are down. Didn't I take Cassandra up on the roof the night before the Games started? Didn't we lay on our backs and study the stars together?

_If this is our last night alive, babe, let's have some fun, _I hear myself try to say seductively, but I'm only a kid and my voice still cracks sometimes. She wasn't my first kiss, no, not even close. Even then I had a reputation as a player, but that means something entirely different as a young teenager in District Four than an adult in the Capitol. The extent of my scandals was sneaking under the dock at low tide with the neighbor girls, smooching them "secretly" and then running back to tell all our friends. We were always so shocked when the news somehow got back to our parents.

But Cassandra… she was different. She hadn't just seen it as throwing caution to the wind in our last hours. She had taken that kiss as a promise, that somehow, some way, we would manage to stay a team. No matter what was thrown at us.

A kiss, a promise… That was when they both lost meaning to me.

But I've made a promise to Annie, too. To protect her in the arena. I've kept it, and I realize that I'm still planning on keeping it. Maybe I need to rethink that decision.

_It's time you face the facts, _I tell myself sternly. _Annie's going to die. If Otto's anything like you, and he is, it's going to be sooner versus later. And there's nothing you can do about it. Helping her isn't going to make up for all the others. It's not going to make up for Cassandra. It's time to let go._

Yes, it's time to let go. It's time to become cold and calculating and detached like every year in the past. Before I get hurt.

I can't say that this spiel makes me feel any better. But at least I have finally acknowledged my feelings for Annie, if only to myself.

Oops. Feelings for Annie? That didn't come out exactly right. But I know what I mean. I consider her a friend, I value her honesty, and, I'll admit it, I'm attached to her. Big surprise. Mags was right again.

Pallindra returns around nine o'clock to collect my sleeping friend and take her back to the hospital. The ditzy woman greets me with a bright smile that burns like a flashlight shone directly into my eyes. "Good morning, Finnick. Did you sleep?"

"Like a victor," I grumble.

She claps her hands cheerfully. "Oh, excellent!"

'Sleeping like a victor' is a Capitol phrase used to describe a very restful, peaceful night of sleep. They figure that any district person who has won the Games feels that sort of intense relief, of course. After all, victors are never supposed to have to worry about anything again, not the Reaping, not a lack of food or money. But to those of us who have actually made it out alive, well, the phrase carries an entirely different meaning.

I'm sad to see Mags go, even sadder that she's asleep and doesn't hear my whispered good-bye. There's a good chance I won't see her again until after the Games. Pallindra promises to bring me updates on her condition, but it doesn't seem like enough.

I turn my attention back to my tributes, who really haven't done anything interesting all morning. They packed up, ate breakfast, and started on their way with nothing but occasional, pleasant conversation. No angst or tension to entertain their audience. This is making them such a target for the Gamemakers' tricks, but what do I really want them to do to liven things up? Attack each other?

Hopefully the other tributes are keeping the cameras occupied. I watch the Careers on the live feed for a while. They are still traveling upriver, away from Annie and Otto, and I keep wondering why the Gamemakers aren't trying to drive them back together. Maybe they'll cross paths with someone else, the girl from Eleven or the boy from Twelve, and there will be some dramatic showdown later on. My tributes are approaching another blinking spot on the GPS. It's the sick boy from Eight, who finally managed to start a fire last night, cooked a little stew, and then slumped down in front of it, unconscious. He's either finally getting a well-deserved night's sleep or he slipped into a coma. Either way, I think Otto could take him.

The Career pack reaches the source of the river in the middle of the afternoon, and I'm surprised to see that the blue blob on my map isn't a lake but a giant reservoir contained by a long, thirty-foot high stone dam. There's a big opening near the top from which a narrow waterfall crashes down, flowing into the stream below. I've never seen any man-made structure in an arena before, but it doesn't seem to have the mark of the Gamemakers. It's too old and cracked, with trees and vines sprouting out of it, as if it's always been there. It's like part of the landscape. The whole thing gives me the creeps, because it means that before this forest was an arena, people worked and played and carried on their daily lives here. Maybe before the Dark Days, or even long before Panem. This could have been part of the ancient civilization of America.

Matilda scopes the dam out thoroughly. She spends the majority of the day leading the Career pack through the forest around to the other side, under the waterfall, taking note of its structure and stability with phrases only citizens of District Seven, lumber and construction, would understand. Shannon and Blade have been muttering under their breath about her all day, because no one ever asked her to take charge of their alliance, and they resent it. They've just begun to complain aloud when Matilda pulls them and Castor into a huddle and starts talking in a rushed whisper. The cameras zoom in dramatically on the pack, and then just like that, the live feed bursts into static.

I know beyond a doubt that the rest of Panem is still watching them strategize, but the mentors can't be given this kind of advantage. I guess we'll find out soon enough. But if Matilda's thought was good enough to be censored in the Mentor's Mansion, it was _good._

_Boom._

Another cannon. The boy from eight finally succumbs to his sickness, slouched against a tree trunk with his hands folded peacefully across his stomach. The hovercraft swoops down and takes his rash-spotted body away, leaving his campfire burning. A pot of soup still bubbles over it.

Well, there is officially no competition left up ahead of my tributes, so it's time for the Gamemakers to pull some trick to turn them around. Declare a banquet. Something. It's been a quiet day with only one death and no battles. The audience must be growing restless by now. But the afternoon wears on, and nothing happens.

Maybe the Gamemakers see that Annie and Otto aren't making much forward progress anyway. Annie carefully doctored the scrape on her foot with the first aid kit last night, but the moss wrapping around both her soles just isn't cutting it in the way of shoes. They go at an easy pace, even though I know this is driving Otto insane. Even if he doesn't know where they're headed, he feels the need to get there _fast._ But they eventually have to slow to a crawl because Annie's limping. She tries not to make a big deal out of it, but I see her teeth clench every time she takes a step.

_I can't do anything about it_, I remind myself coldly and detachedly. And I really can't. If it were Otto, I could buy another pair of sturdy hiking boots with my sponsor money. But I don't have a penny to spend toward Annie. Otto can share gifts like food or weapons with her, which means this alliance will likely be the only thing keeping her alive in the days to come.

But there's something about seeing her in pain that's hard for me to stomach. Literally. I can tell myself that I don't care all I want to, but it doesn't do anything to ease the twisting knot in my gut whenever she winces. I can convince my mind of almost anything, but my gut is a different story.

Otto's innards don't seem to be as sympathetic. He doesn't notice that Annie's hurting, only that she's slowing down. He keeps urging her on, trying to be patient and really failing. It's still nice to see that someone is there for her to grab onto when she stumbles, though.

Otto finally sighs. "This isn't working." He scoops Annie up and slings her over his shoulder like a sack of flour. She complies, face flushed with embarrassment and exhaustion.

I hear laughter several cubicles down. Of course it's Brutus, getting a kick out of the fact that one of my tributes is weak and one is stupid and they are both running away from his Careers. I'm sure he's not the only one amused, either. I remember what I told Annie in training about District Four becoming the laughingstock of Panem. It hadn't entirely been a lie. Four successive years of failure to produce a victor, and even my reputation has been tarnished. I've gone from "the Capitol's favorite heartthrob" to "the Capitol's favorite heartthrob who's _really _having a string of bad luck". I wonder at what point bad luck starts to trump everything else and I become… Haymitch.

Otto's path swerves back toward the stream, which has narrowed off considerably by this point. We're all relieved to see that the banks and the stream bed are strewn with rocks instead of the slick black quicksand. My tributes pause to drink and wash up for "just a moment", Otto insists. But I'm afraid that if Annie stops now she won't find the strength to get started again. Sure enough, she plunges her feet, moss wrappings and all, into the cool water and almost before she breathes a sigh of relief, she's out.

Otto swallows his irritation and sits down beside her. He settles himself in and simply watches the stream ripple past until his eyes glaze over. It's the first time since I've known him that I get the impression his mind has wandered out of the arena. Maybe it's finally traveled back home. His life has always revolved around the Games, and when they're over… then what happens?

I know, of course. But there's no way I can tell him.

It's not until after twilight falls that the flickering of firelight becomes visible through the trees. Otto's on his feet in a moment, grabbing his spear, shaking Annie to wake her. She struggles to make sense of his whispered warning. "There's a campfire. Someone's up ahead. I'm going in, cover my back."

He starts to turn back toward the woods, but she just stares at him, still bewildered.

"Your _knives!_" he whispers in frustration. "Grab your knives!"

She nods quickly and reaches for her belt laying beside her on the bank. She's forgotten that they are weapons as well as tools. I get the feeling, not for the first time, that she spent all that time training with them mostly to appease me, not because she really planned to fight in the Games. Even now, as she tiptoes behind Otto toward a possible confrontation, the blade of the knife in her hands is shaking so badly I doubt she's going to be able to use it. With my luck, she's probably taken a vow not to kill anyone. You hear talk of kids like that, mostly from the outlying districts. You hear talk of them dying, at least, never of them winning.

But there's no one to fight at the campsite, of course. Just a dying fire and a little pot of soup that is beginning to burn. This is where the boy from Eight died.

To an audience that is privy to this information, Annie and Otto's silent, cautious approach is laughable and painfully slow. But I'm just glad that Otto's finally looking before he leaps. After several minutes of kneeling in the underbrush, watching the eerie shadows cast by the flames and hearing nothing but the wind, he motions Annie to follow him into the clearing. They creep out to the campfire and pace around it slowly, watching for danger from all sides. Otto holds his spear proudly over his head. Annie just tries to keep her knife steady.

"Show yourself!" Otto calls as loudly as he dares. His voice bounces around the clearing before disappearing into the night. Then there's nothing but silence once again.

"This is weird," Annie finally whispers.

Otto nods and turns his face to the sky, studying it for a long moment. "Look," he finally says, pointing to the ring of broken branches above their heads. "A hovercraft dropped here. Whoever made the fire is dead."

Annie frowns. "But what if he wasn't alone?"

"Then his ally is now. Alone, that is. He's probably running from us. I don't know if you've noticed, but I'm kinda intimidating." Otto smirks and sits beside the campfire. Just like that, he's back to his old cocky self.

Annie still isn't satisfied. "What if it was the Careers?" she whispers anxiously.

"Then they would have heard me yell and we'd be dead by now," Otto says matter-of-factly. He absently drops a stick into the fire and watches the flames envelop it. Annie kneels beside him, hesitantly replacing the knife in her belt.

"Now what?" she asks. "Shouldn't we put the fire out so no one sees us?"

"Good move. You work on that, I'll work on dinner." Otto grins and reaches for the bubbling pot of soup. A warning bell goes off in my head. _Don't eat that, _I think at him as loudly as I can.

"Put that down!" Annie scolds. "You can't just eat anything you find here!"

"What, you think it's a trap?" Otto laughs. "Honey, someone made it so they could eat it. Nobody poisons their own stew."

_Don't call her honey, _I think.

"Don't call me honey," she echoes me. "And you have no idea what's in it!"

He sniffs the pot and tips it so she can see inside. "Groosling. Parsley. Wild onions. I think I'm okay."

She sighs and gives up. And I'm stuck in this swivel chair helplessly watching while Otto eats food prepared and consumed by a very contagious invalid.

The Capitol seal appears, and, speak of the devil, the boy from Eight's face lights up the sky overhead. Annie's eyes widen in recognition and she snatches the pot out of Otto's hands, dumping half the contents into his lap or into the fire. "What the heck?" he snarls.

"The boy from Eight was here!" Annie motions to the clearing around them.

"So?" he snaps indignantly.

"_So_?! Did you not _see_ those kids at the interviews? They were half-_dead_ with fever!" She holds the stew away from him.

"Oh, Annie." He sighs and reaches for the pot. She shakes her head, and suddenly he has grabbed one of her arms and wrenched it behind her back, ignoring her sharp cry of pain. "I'm hungry," he hisses into her ear.

Yes, this is the kid I am familiar with, the arrogant, ill-tempered, violent one who must get what he wants. Who abandons a pretense of friendship with Annie as soon as she crosses him in the slightest of ways.

"Let go of me!" she shrieks.

_Let go of her. _Who am I talking to? Otto or myself?

Annie shoves the pot in his face. He releases her arm, and she resentfully rubs the sore spot. "Do whatever you want," she mutters. "I just didn't want you getting sick."

He just laughs at her and takes another slurp of the stuff. "I don't get sick."

Of course he doesn't.

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><p><strong>Oh, Otto... I am shaking my head at you sternly...<strong>

**Sooooo... I just realized that I named Career kid Castor. I was thinking that was such a genius name that could have come right out of the Hunger Games! Turns out it did... :P Castor was the brother of Pollux the Avox in Mockingjay... Mah bad... Should I change my character's name?  
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	14. Humiliated

__**I return with another chapter that doesn't have a whole lot of action... that will be changing VERY soon. :) Still, I love this chapter a lot, finally we get to see some real interaction between Annie and Otto! Hope you enjoy! I was hoping to hit fifty reviews before I updated, but... forty-nine is close enough.  
><strong>

**On a side note, I found out that this story is on forty-one people's favorites lists. FORTY-ONE. Not to complain, because I am SOOOOO thankful, but... WHERE ARE YOU ALL AT? If you read, please review!**

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><p><em>Day 4… 7:32 AM<em>

One hundred and three degrees.

That's what the reading from Otto's tracking device displayed for his body temperature this morning. One hundred and three degrees, and it's still climbing.

There's no point to screaming at the screen now, to saying I told you so, to breathing murderous threats over his head. Because he's reached the end of the line entirely without my help. I spent most of the night flipping through my catalogue for a remedy, but I have no idea what's wrong with Otto, much less how to help him. Mags always handled wilderness survival and health supplies. When it comes to this sort of stuff, I'm pretty useless. It's just about time to pack up and head home, because once Otto goes, Annie won't be far behind. I've accepted that, haven't I?

_Failure. _Maybe my Capitol fans can forgive me one more time. But District Four will never be able to. At least not the parents. The parents never let go. And then there's President Snow and his gigantic generous non-refundable check. For the first time in his life, he will lose the Games, too. And I will pay for it. Not me physically, because he needs me to carry on my work in the Capitol. But he doesn't need my old friends, my neighbors, my home in Four, the last traces of my dysfunctional family. And he definitely doesn't need his people's tax dollars sustaining Mags in the hospital.

Now I've failed her too.

My tributes were too angry to speak to each last night, so they never worked out their night watching schedule. They both ended up falling asleep, although Otto is restless with fever. He's tossing and turning and moaning, obviously in quite a bit of pain. But Annie lies still and quiet in her sleeping bag a few yards away, chest rising and falling peacefully.

She stirs just as dawn breaks through the trees, rolls over and stretches before an explosive cough from Otto startles her wide awake. Frowning, she sneaks to his side and studies his face in the dim light. The beginnings of red spots pepper his cheeks and neck. To my surprise, she just rolls her eyes.

Well, I knew she wasn't crazy about him, but I expected a little more concern than that. Yes, he's treated her poorly, but he also saved her life. Seems like that would count for something, especially for a naturally compassionate person like Annie. And even if she really doesn't care about him, I would think she would be panicking for herself, because we all know now just how contagious Otto is.

But she just calmly stands up and digs through her first aid kit. Pulling out a strip of bandages, she hurries down to the stream and wets them. Otto hears her returning and makes an effort to sit up on his elbows. He groans as the fog of sleep leaves his mind and the full force of the sickness hits him. She doesn't say a word, just gently presses the cloth against his face. He coughs again, painfully, and reaches out to grab her hand.

"Annie," he murmurs. "If I don't make it-"

"Shhh…" Her face immediately softens. "Oh, Otto, don't say that…"

"I want you to win," he whispers. "For Four. Please. Promise you'll try."

Annie shakes her head. "Otto, you're not going to die," she says, giving his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Don't try to sugarcoat it!" he moans. "Annie, you were right. You were right about everything and now I'm gonna-"

"No, you _really _aren't going to die," Annie insists. There's a note of exasperation creeping into her voice.

He speaks in such a low whisper that she has to lean in close to hear. "Tell my family… that I love them," he says miserably, sore throat cracking. And his eyelids slowly sink shut, his breathing quiets.

Annie just stays there, knelt beside him as he drifts away, and starts twiddling her thumbs absently. She picks at a hangnail. He's dying, and she's cold. Absolutely emotionless. The whole time, she's opening her mouth and then shutting it again, as if debating whether or not to say something.

"Otto, you have the measles," she finally blurts out.

And just like that, his eyes fly open again. He's returned from the jaws of death in an instant. "What?" he mutters. "Isn't that a kid's thing?"

"Generally speaking," she admits, trying to hide her amusement.

"You're joking!" he cries, so loudly he brings on another coughing fit.

She flinches at his outburst. "I have three little brothers, Otto, I think I know the measles when I see them."

He moans and drops her hand like it's burning him, pulls the sleeping bag up over his head. "Can I get you anything?" she leans over and asks the lump in the fabric.

"No!" he snaps, obviously humiliated. "I'm fine!"

She shrugs and backs off. "I'm sorry. I thought you would want to know that you weren't dying."

Measles, of all things. Extremely dangerous to a starving kid from Eight, but for a strong, healthy Career like Otto, it's not life-threatening. I spend a moment relishing my relief before I start screaming and cursing at him. It's his own fault for being such an idiot and refusing to listen to Annie, who is clearly the brains of this partnership. And now my tributes' defense is compromised. If the Careers showed up, no, if _anyone_, even the little girl from Three, showed up, they're sitting ducks. Otto clutches his spear close to his side, but he can't fight. He can barely sit up without fighting off dizziness.

He may have been overdramatic this morning, but the kid really is sick. Measles is like a lot of childhood ailments, the older you are when you get it, the worse your case is going to be. Otto's clearly miserable but denies it and won't let Annie do anything for him. He keeps shooting her angry looks, as if he resents the fact that she spoiled his perfect death scene. She takes it all in stride, polishing her knives on the other side of the clearing, allowing him a few hours to nurse his wounded pride in peace. I don't really know whether I should be doing something to help. Annie seems to sense this, because after a while she begins to recite a few random facts about the measles.

"There's no medicine that cures it. We just have to wait it out. Don't worry about me, I had it as a kid. You can't get it twice. The fever doesn't usually last more than a few days." Otto's obviously not paying attention, so I think she's talking for my benefit.

"If the cough gets really bad, it'd be nice to have a suppressant…" She confirms my suspicions and glances upward once, raising her eyebrows. "Are you catching all this, Finnick?"

"You betcha," I answer.

"You might want to write it down." There's the old teasing edge returning in her voice.

I can't help laughing a little as I pull a sponsor's check out of the safety box and jot a few notes on the back of it. I've never had a tribute who carried on a "conversation" with me in the arena, but this is the sort of thing the audience eats up. Then I think of my last _real_ conversations with Annie, in training, before the interview, in the penthouse the morning the Games started, and I have to swallow all of those feelings for her that I meant to get rid of a long time ago.

"I'm going down to the stream. I'll bring you a fish," Annie says after a long silence, to Otto this time. "Will you be okay by yourself?"

"Of course," he snaps.

"I'll just be a few yards away, in hearing range. Holler if there's any trouble. Don't fall asleep," she continues, gathering up the ropes and nets she made the other day.

He sneers at her. "I'll be fine, Annie, just go!"

She reluctantly leaves him and heads down to the bank, hiking her backpack up over her shoulder. It's not an ideal situation, but if they want to eat today without depleting our emergency sponsor funds, it's necessary. I can't help noticing as Annie disappears over the incline that she's still walking slowly, favoring her right foot. As soon as she's out of sight, Otto slumps back against a tree trunk and moans deeply. He quickly busies himself with fingering the end of his spear, trying to keep his eyes open. Shivering in spite of the humid air.

What a great situation we find ourselves in. Both of my tributes are debilitated in some way, and on top of that, they're still wary and distrustful of one another. This wonderful team I've constructed has quickly fallen into ruin.

_Failure._

Well, we haven't failed quite yet.

I keep an eye on the other tributes on the alternating live feed. Matilda is directing Careers in chopping down the trees in the forest around her. She actually has these kids willingly hauling lumber, they are so convinced of the success of whatever plan she's hatched.

Their mentors are really tag-teaming now. They've all gone off to some fancy restaurant to eat lunch with sponsors, leaving Johanna and one of One's mentors, Cashmere, dutifully watching the screens. It feels so empty in the Mentor's Mansion now. Besides the two of them and me, the only ones that remain are Chaff and Seeder from Eleven, Haymitch from Twelve, and the fidgety, brilliant lunatic from Three whose name I finally catch. Beetee. It's only Day Four, but we're down to nine tributes. At the rate they're finding one another, though, we'll be here forever.

Finally, in the middle of the afternoon, there's an encounter. The boy from Twelve is making his way through a dense patch of woods. I'm surprised that he's hung on this long, considering Haymitch spends about half of each day sleeping and the other half guzzling white liquor out of his imported glass bottles. But the boy is obviously relying on something besides sponsor gifts or brute strength, because he doesn't have either. He's armed with nothing but a blunt tree limb when he catches sight of her dark form rustling the branches. The girl from Eleven, tall, slender, graceful. He stops short and calls out to her, waving his club threateningly. She answers back in a low whistle, a sort of bird call, and then hops to the ground a few feet away from him. They hold a whispered conversation that I don't catch a word of. I'm not sure what the point is. They don't seem to form an alliance, seeing as they never relax their defensive stances. The boy never lowers his club, the girl holds a little pipe up to her lips like a blowgun. But they never fight, either. They hurriedly part ways as if they've never seen each other.

I can almost hear the Gamemakers cursing under their breaths. The one opportunity for battle today has been blown. It's time for them to start flipping switches. I hold my breath.

They start on the other side of the arena, where the girl from Three has piled up stones three feet high around a vent in the volcano. I sure don't understand her brilliant plan for detonating this ticking time bomb of a landmark, but it requires her to search an ever-widening circle of ground for more smooth rocks for her wall. She's gathered up an armful of blacks ones streaked with purple and blue and is headed back toward the volcano when it happens. The dark coloring of the rocks makes it difficult to see the cracks appearing, but the little flash of a razor sharp claw in the sunlight is harder to miss. Then the glint of a tooth, the flick of a little reptilian tail, and the girl is screaming and dropping her load of stones, ripping the first lizard out of her forearm and flinging it away into the brush.

It's too late. The other "stones" have shattered on the gravelly ground and a dozen of the tiny monsters chase her. _Dinosaurs _is the word I register for them, although the creature in my mind is much larger and was considered ancient even in ancient North America. These things are so little and fast that they overtake her in a matter of seconds with teeth and claws bared. All of Panem watches the first trickles of red appear on her legs and arms.

I know right away that this will not be a quick death. But the cruel, sick, dominant part of me hopes that it will at least serve as a distraction from Annie and Otto.

_Leave my tributes alone, _I silently will the Gamemakers.I've already seen them suffer more than enough for one day. Otto's fever spikes again and he's bent over hacking up his lungs for most of the afternoon. Annie returns with fresh fish and offers him some, but he has no appetite to speak of. She limps away in search of another hot spring to cook her catch.

She's only gone for a couple of minutes before he's coughing again, a dry, barking sound that just gets louder and longer with each breath. Otto eyes the canteen that Annie left for him beside the fire pit, maybe ten feet away, and reaches up to grab a tree branch. He hoists himself to his feet and takes a few shaky steps before he stops and doubles over at the waist in another spastic fit of coughing. Reflexive tears squeeze out of the corners of his eyes.

Annie hears and hurries back into the clearing, and the worry is evident on her face when she sees him wobbling back to the tree trunk for support. "What are you doing? Sit down!" She grabs his arm and helps him over to his sleeping bag, but I can still see the effort he's making not to lean on her. He slides to the ground and tries to stifle the tickle in his chest.

"What's going on?" Annie demands.

"Water," Otto finally croaks, refusing to meet her eye. "I just wanted water."

Annie's face softens and she quickly grabs the canteen for him. He chokes down half the contents and then thrusts it back into her hands without ever lifting his gaze off the ground.

What a role reversal this must be for him. To be the weak one for a change. Annie sinks down beside him. "How do you feel?"

"Worse," he admits, leaning his head back against the tree trunk.

She studies him for a moment, taking in the blotchy rash that has spread over his face and neck and started to peek out from beneath his shirt sleeves. "Yeah, you look worse." She reaches out and presses her palm to his forehead. He gives her a dark look but apparently can't manage to resist any more than that.

Her low whistle doesn't bode well. "You're hot."

He quirks an eyebrow at her mischievously. "Thanks," he rasps.

I hate it when he tries to sound like me.

"You should have said something," she says with a little shake of her head. She grabs the first aid kit and digs around for a bottle of fever pills. Of course, she had them the whole time, if he'd only let on that he needed them so badly.

"Just rest," Annie tells him. "I'll keep watch."

He swallows the medicine and lays down hesitantly at her insistence. But he doesn't sleep. He just watches her for several long minutes. To shut his eyes now would be to place his life in her hands. Those nervous hands that fidget anxiously without anything to occupy them.

He just watches as she grabs a rock and starts sharpening her knives.

She could kill him now, if she wanted to. Otto and I both know it. But she won't. And I see in his eyes that this is the most humiliating thing of all.

* * *

><p><strong>It stinks to be Otto, doesn't it? Really enjoyed writing his embarrassing near-death scene... The real one... not looking forward to quite so much...<strong>

**Enjoy, my pretties! Hoping all forty-one of you will review! ;)  
><strong>


	15. No Place

**TEN REVIEWS! :D That's a record for me. Thanks so much to my loyal readers and first-time reviewers!  
><strong>

**Wow, it's been almost a week since my last update... I've had little time to write but school just got out so that's finally going to change! Hmmm anyway, about this chapter... well, still not action packed but contains some important events. So hang with me! :) Hopefully y'all will still enjoy it. And we meet Annie's family for the first time... Fun!**

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><p><em>Day 5… 10:34 P.M.<em>

_Boom. _

In the cubicle beside me, Beetee switches off his screens, still murmuring nonsense to himself. I only catch a single word. _Goodnight. _

Goodnight little girl from Three.

Otto must have already been awake when the cannon sounded, because I don't think anyone could jerk straight up out of a deep sleep as quickly as he does. "Annie?" he calls hoarsely into the night. I don't miss the edge of panic in his voice.

"Right here," she answers calmly. She's sitting just a few feet away in the darkness, stationed with her back against a tree trunk, keeping watch.

Otto blows out a quick breath. "I thought-"

"I know," she murmurs. "I was about to check your pulse."

After a couple of quiet days, Otto's finally on the mend. Much too gradually for my taste, probably because he's hardly slept the past couple of days. I can't blame a lack of trust in Annie for his insomnia anymore, because he finally had to give up and accept her help. And even though they still hardly speak to one another, he looks at her differently now, with a hint of something in his eyes. Respect, I tell myself.

No, he doesn't sleep because the temperature of the arena hasn't dropped below ninety degrees the past two nights. His fever finally broke this afternoon, and in this heat the sweat and the rash are making him miserable. Annie listens to him toss and turn on top of his sleeping bag for a while and then whispers, "Just relax, Otto."

"I can't," he mutters, sitting up and squirming uncomfortably. "I itch."

I take pity and waste a bit of sponsor money on some ointment for his skin. My reasoning, of course, is that easing his discomfort will quicken his recovery, but I really just feel sorry for him. It's not the same visceral reaction I had to watching Annie suffer, but still, it's clear that I like both of these kids entirely too much.

The parachute blacks out a section of stars as it drifts down between the shadowy tree branches. Annie catches it and gives another smirk in my direction. "Awww, look, Otto," she says as she opens the canister and removes the tiny jar inside. It's the first gift that I've sent them. "He does love us."

Yeah, don't remind me.

Otto sighs in relief when he applies the cream. Annie instructs him to lie down and helps him with his back and shoulders. He accepts her assistance but seems a bit troubled by something. I suppose it might bother him that Annie, practically a stranger, is so close and touching his bare skin. I vaguely remember that for some people, this is considered unusual. But he doesn't speak until she's nearly emptied the little jar.

"Annie, I'm sorry," he blurts out.

She glances down at him in surprise. "Oh, really? For what?"

"For eating that soup," he mutters.

Annie just smothers a smile as she closes the jar and reseals it neatly in the canister. "I'll bet you are," she says dryly.

As usual, Otto doesn't catch her sarcasm. "You know, this really isn't as great as I thought it would be," he admits. He's lying, sick and miserable, in the middle of a dark, wild forest in an arena laced with lethal traps, competing in a fight to the death with twenty-three other children. You can't help but wonder what he was expecting.

"It's not a tropical vacation," Annie snorts before seeing his serious expression. "You've got such a good chance of winning, though." She hesitates. "You still want to win, don't you?"

He sighs deeply. "I just want to go home."

His reply is painfully honest. I suppose Annie just has that effect on people. She nods thoughtfully and draws her knees up to her chest. "Do you ever wonder why they don't?"

"Why who don't what?" Otto asks.

"The victors. Why do so many of them not go home? It's supposed to be a perk of winning. Take Finnick, for example," she says abruptly. "How often do you see him around Four?"

Otto shrugs. "Maybe twice a year."

"If that. It doesn't make sense."

"Well, he's got his money and his girlfriends," Otto says. "I guess he just likes the Capitol a lot."

"He hates it," Annie spits. She doesn't even try to hide her bitterness.

My stomach drops. As considerate as it is of her to try to see past my public image, the red light is glowing on my dashboard and that means it's time to stop broadcasting Finnick's personal feelings toward the Capitol on live television. Finnick is in enough trouble as it is.

Otto is my saving grace, because after a moment of silence he veers the conversation away from me. "You have a good chance of winning, too." Annie simply rolls her eyes.

"No, you do!" he insists. "You're so much stronger than I thought you were…" Otto trails off, glancing down in shame. "I treated you like dirt."

"Like slime," she corrects curtly, but she's trying not to smile.

He sits up on his sleeping bag again. "Let me keep watch for you," he pleads. "You need to rest, too."

"No, I'm fine. You need it more," Annie insists. She shifts around uncomfortably. "I don't think I'd sleep anyway."

"Why not?" he presses.

"I keep… reliving everything," she admits. "It's worse when I close my eyes."

I'm not sure what she means at first, because not a lot of traumatic things have happened to my tributes thus far in the Games. There was only the brief encounter with quicksand, a bit of heart-racing anticipation for a fight that never happened. But I realize that she did see a bit of the bloodbath. She watched Otto jam a spear into a kid younger than herself. All of those things that used to be heartbreaking before they were so commonplace. Well, I guess they aren't commonplace to her yet.

Otto sighs and settles back down. "Isn't there some way I can make things up to you?"

"Yes." Annie reaches over in the darkness and absently fingers a strand of Otto's hair. He relaxes at her touch. "Get better," she whispers intently. "Don't leave me alone in this place."

"I won't," he murmurs, even as his eyes drift shut. "I promise."

Panem sighs at the sweetness. But I just shake my head.

I wish I could remind Annie that he has no way of keeping his word. And a promise in the arena doesn't mean anything, anyway. Not from people like Otto.

Not from people like us.

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><p><em>Day 6… 9:27 AM<em>

It's the reason I can't stand him, isn't it? Otto is just like me. Or just the way I was in the Games. Of course, I had noticed the outward similarities from the beginning. He isa strong, dangerous, arrogant Career. But now I see that he's even copying my every move in the arena.

I fought in the bloodbath. I fought so hard for that little fish-gutting knife. What had Mags told me? _Do not under _ANY circumstances…

I believed I was invincible. I made a boneheaded move and consumed something not fit for consumption. I even think it was on Day Four. I became very ill, after I clearly remember telling Mags in training that I'd never spent a day sick in my life. Really, our stories are almost uncanny. The only difference is that I really did almost die, while Otto just felt under the weather for a few days. That and… I didn't get an Annie to nurse me back to health.

I have a private meeting with sponsors this morning in one of the Mentor's Mansion's secluded back rooms. Later in the Games, I may make an appearance to the public in the courtyard out front, but today I'm just visiting with rich interested individuals, the kind of sponsors that I desperately need to win over.

I begin the conversation by running damage control on Annie's comments about me. _I don't know where she got that. Of course, I love the Capitol. Love the food, love the parties, love the wonderful people… _The lies are so old and rote that they hardly even taste bitter coming off of my tongue. Then I compliment them all on their strange dyes and tattoos and piercings and insertions and reductions until they feel sufficiently flattered, and we can get down to business.

The first thing they all want to know is why they should sponsor Otto, who has already made so many foolish mistakes and is still unwell from his last slip-up. I take a deep breath and plunge into the tales of my own foolishness in the arena, the day I drank swamp water and suffered for it, and how it was only the generosity of sponsors that kept me alive. That last part isn't completely true, but as usual, I don't mention survival training or Mags. They wouldn't recognize her name, anyway.

And I explain how I went on to learn a lesson. My bad experience changed me, taught me to be cautious. It also taught me to be terrified for my own life, to go to any length to protect it, to kill on sight and ask questions later, but that's not the sort of thing they want to hear about. I just say that the Games change you. The Games shape you into the tribute you're going to be. I tell them that the Games made me into a great fighter.

The Games don't change you. They destroy you. They steal you. They rip you into pieces and leave you bleeding and scrambling to pull yourself together again. It's a miracle that Annie and Otto have made it this far without breaking.

I put in a good word for Annie after that. I praise her ingenuity, her common sense, and her level-headedness under pressure. But when I walk out of the meeting, I have an armful of sponsor's checks for Otto and nothing for her. Brute strength takes the cake again.

Now I return to the screens and watch Annie and Otto eat breakfast, put another coat of cream on his rash. Yes, it's really a miracle Otto hasn't broken the way I did. Maybe it's only a matter of time. Or maybe his ally's kind words and healing hands really are making a difference to him.

It's Annie who counts on her fingers the tributes left later that morning and realizes that we're down to the final eight, which is something of a milestone in the Games. It's the point when sponsorship skyrockets and betting becomes highly competitive. And, Annie reminds me aloud, the interviews with the tributes' family and friends should be airing as we speak. I pat my pocket that contains all of Annie's letters home. I couldn't leave them at the penthouse, where they would picked up or swept away by Capitol attendants. Well, I'm about to get an education on these faceless names.

I wheel out to the center of the room to watch the special broadcast displayed on the ceiling's live feed. I tune in just as Annie's parents are beginning their interview. A caption beneath the middle-aged couple labels them "Mr. and Mrs. Cresta", and I realize that their faces, at least, are familiar to me from around town. Her mother is a wispy, petite woman with graying hair and big dark bags beneath her eyes. She's in tears before the first question is asked.

But her father is the polar opposite. He's tall, big-boned, with a hard expression and deep lines etched in the leathery skin of his face. Although he's got to be in his mid-fifties, he's still got a muscular fisherman's body and his arms are as big around as hams. Something about him fills me with a vague sense of dread.

"Of course she can win," Annie's father says gruffly. "My daughter is tough. She has a good head on her shoulders. We told her to fight for all she's worth. We told her to come home. Right, Nadine?"

His wife nods and dabs her eyes. "Of course, of course. We just want our baby back."

I remember Annie telling me she had three younger brothers, and I recognize their dark little moptops right away. The cameramen have sat them down on the beach with the ocean as a picturesque background, and one of the boys whistles to a shaggy brown puppy. It bounds clumsily over, tongue lolling, and he pulls it into his lap.

"Annie was gonna teach me how to train my puppy," the boy explains. "He only listens to her, anyway."

The camera focuses in on the oldest brother, who is a scrawny, freckled kid of maybe thirteen. His already serious face grows more solemn when they ask his thoughts on Annie's reaping.

"When I was little I almost drowned," he murmurs. "In a riptide off Sunset Point. Annie dove in and saved me. She knew how to do mouth-to-mouth." He battles with his quivering lip for a moment before continuing. "She saved me and I couldn't thank her. I couldn't volunteer."

The littlest boy, the six-year-old, who has been sitting still and silent up to this point, sees his brother's tears and breaks down sobbing. "I'm sorry I pulled your hair!" he wails at the camera. "I'm sorry, Annie. I didn't mean it!"

The oldest swabs his eyes quickly and gives the little one a dark look. "She can't hear you, Bryce. She's in the arena with Otto, remember?"

The youngest- Bryce- leaps to his feet and clenches his tiny fists at his side. _"Give her back!" _he screeches, face bright red with fury. He charges the camera and his brothers grab his arms and hold him back.

There's a quick cut, and Annie's older sister appears onscreen with her fiancé. She's a few years older, a little shorter, quite a bit blonder. I realize that I know her from somewhere. It's not just the resemblance to Annie, although that's evident. But she's about my age, I suppose she was probably in my class in school. She doesn't cry. In fact, her eyes blaze so much hotter than I've ever seen her sister's. And she addresses _me_ personally.

"I don't want to see you come back without my sister," she says tightly. "In fact, if you're not coming back with one of them, you'd better not come back at all. Finnick Odair, you'd better just die in the Capitol."

Well, that confirms my suspicions about the unforgiving families of Four. I can't say that I blame them. In fact, I agree. If I don't bring back a victor this year, I'd be better off just dying. Anywhere.

More people I don't recognize. A few of Annie's school friends, a couple of sobbing girls, a band teacher who praises her skill with the flute. Every person interviewed has their name displayed beneath them on the screen. I match many of them to the letters' recipients. I watch closely but never catch sight of Derek, although I'm becoming more and more curious about him. I suppose I tuned in too late and missed his interview. The love interest's perspective is most important and generally shown first.

Otto's family comes on next, and if I thought Annie's father was intimidating, I spoke much too soon. This man is six-and-a-half feet tall and practically as wide. His deep voice rumbles out of a massive oil-drum chest when he speaks. "Otto will win the Morris family great honor!"

I wheel back over to my station then. I don't think there's much more I need to learn about Otto's family.

Things are still pretty quiet with my tributes. Annie makes a trip down to the stream and finds it partially dried up in the heat. She has to squish through a layer of mud that used to be riverbed to fill her canteens. Returning to camp, she hands one canteen to Otto and lays the other at her side as she unwraps the moss covering on her feet. She dribbles a little water over her soles, which are scratched and swollen bright red to twice as large as they should be. Otto stops chugging from his canteen long enough to frown at her.

"What happened to your feet?" he asks. He's just now noticing, of course.

She shrugs as she gingerly wipes them dry. "The arena."

He scoots closer to her and studies the bottom of her feet intently. "Oh my gosh…" He pokes the puffy skin with an index finger. "Does it hurt?"

Annie winces and jerks her feet away from him. "Yes!" she snaps. "Of course it does." She grabs the first aid kit and goes to work applying antiseptic and bandages. Otto leans back with a sick look on his face. It's not from squeamishness, but instead I recognize the sort of nausea I get watching her suffer.

"Take my shoes," he says, reaching down to pull off his own Games-issued hunting boots.

Annie nods. "Thanks, Otto. I'll borrow them next time I make a trip to the stream."

He shakes his head. "No, I mean keep them. You need them more than I do."

I suddenly catch his drift and start flipping through my catalogue.

She eyes him, a bit perplexed, and picks up one of the boots. "What are you going to do, then?"

"Just trust me." Otto takes the shoe back and shoves a bit of moss into the toe, then does the same to the other. "Sorry if they smell." He gently eases the boots onto her feet. They're so swollen that it's actually not too bad a fit.

Annie stands up and takes a few steps. "I think this'll work," she says. "Thank you. Hopefully they'll heal up in a few days."

"I don't think I'll need them back," he replies. And he's right. The parachute is already on its way. My tributes watch it float down and snag on a tree branch. Otto climbs up to grab it and retrieve his brand new pair of hiking boots. A gift from his generous sponsors.

He sits down on the forest floor and pulls them on. "Perfect fit," he says with a grin.

"That's right, I forgot, people actually _like _you," Annie laughs. When he stands, she rises on tiptoe to throw her arms around his neck. "I never thought I'd say this, Otto," she says into his ear. "But you're a genius!"

He laughs, too, and hesitantly squeezes her back. "I am, aren't I?" There's humor in his voice instead of the usual smugness.

Annie lets go of her partner and just smiles up at him. He turns away, running a nervous hand through his hair and muttering under his breath about needing to go get something from somewhere for some purpose.

I pretend I don't see it. The redness creeping up his neck that isn't from his fading measles rash. The twinkle that he can't quite shake from his eyes. In fact, I'm so good at pretending I even pretend that I don't bristle every time he looks at her.

Because I am not Haymitch Abernathy, and I know that there is no place for forbidden romance in the Hunger Games.

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><p><strong>Well... not my favorite chapter, but it's still something. :) (My favorite chapter is actually chapter 6, if you're curious!) Oh, Otto... you give us yet another twist there at the end... Feedback?<br>**

**EDIT: Annie's sister has a "fiancé" instead of a "fiancée". She is marrying a man. Jus' letting you know. ;)  
><strong>


	16. Bone Dry

**I am once again ****almost a chapter ahead of you. I love the summer and having time to write! Anyway, I hope you enjoy this chapter. Stuff... happens. Don't forget to review my pretties! :D I love you all!**_  
><em>

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><p><em>Day 7… 8:24 AM<em>

"Do you want to split up?"

That's what Annie asked him this morning, off-handedly, over breakfast. Otto scowled at her, almost a bit insulted.

"Split up? Why would we do that?"

Annie shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "It's been a week, Otto. Things are gonna get crazy."

He shook his head. "What happened to 'don't leave me alone in this place'?"

"Otto." She heaved a big sigh, because she didn't want to have to explain herself. "What if it comes down to us?"

He nodded, slowly catching her meaning, and he ripped a big bite out of his jerky. Chewing thoughtfully, he leaned back against a tree trunk. "If it comes down to us," he said after swallowing. "_Then _we split up." He scooted up beside Annie and pointed off into the woods. "You go north and I'll go south and we'll see what happens."

Annie shook her head. "Otto…"

"What? Do you want to go south?" he asked innocently. "Because that's back toward the volcano, and I figured you would be too smart to do that."

"Otto!" Annie gave a sad little laugh, despite herself.

Otto shrugged. "Well, what do you think?"

She bit her lip, studied him silently for a moment. "I think I trust you entirely too much," she finally said with a shy smile.

"Excellent!" Otto held up the last strip of dried jerky. "To Team District Four!"

Annie rolled her eyes and held up her own piece. "To Four!"

What did I witness? Annie tried to dissolve the alliance. Otto refused.

Role reversal if I've ever seen it.

* * *

><p>By the second week of the Games, mentors know what keeps them going.<p>

For the Career mentors, it's their numbers that allow them to grab a bit of rest each night. Johanna Mason is fueled by pure rage at anything and anyone. Haymitch needs his bottles for stability.

I've always relied on Mags to keep me sane, but this year I've found something entirely new. Something more bittersweet and strong and empowering than I've ever experienced before. I feel her coursing through my veins, sending my heart racing. My soul mate. I wrap my fingers tightly around her, drinking in her warmth, unable to let go. Because as much as I can't stand the thought, I can't get through this without her.

Not without my coffee.

I stare down into the mug I have just emptied for the fifth time today. I've never really cared for coffee much, I could take it or leave it, but this stuff is strong and black and tar-like and tastes like mud. And while the artificial sweetener that the Capitol provides may contain zero calories and zero sugar, it is also of zero assistance. Now I'm drinking saccharine, syrupy black mud and after five cups my leg won't quit shaking and my mind is flitting at a million thoughts a second and I'm going to throw up. But if I break it off with her now, I know that another will step in to take her place. Fatigue. I have to choose the mud, and she knows it.

Coffee is a cruel mistress.

It's a little strange to be drinking something this hot in the middle of the excessively air-conditioned Mentor's Mansion while the thermostat in the arena is climbing up toward one hundred degrees. Annie and Otto woke to find their clothes soaked through with sweat and hurried to eat breakfast and pack up their things. Otto's back to firing on all cylinders, or at least as many as he relied on before, so they decide it's time to move camp. My tributes head straight for the stream to cleanse their sticky skin before getting underway.

They find a dry bed.

Both of them understand the critical situation without needing to say a word to each another. Annie bites her lip and sinks down on the bank, blotting the perspiration beading on her forehead. Otto wanders up and down the rocky bottom and kicks up pebbles, like he's looking for water underneath. I already see the moisture staining through his shirt and know they don't have long before dehydration sets in.

Of course, they're being broadcast live now. Mentors don't get to hear the commentary, but I know that Claudius Templesmith is jeering at my tributes' bewildered and frustrated reaction. I can hear him now. _Come on, guys. It's not that difficult. How could you lose an entire river… overnight?_

Yes, how? I rack my brain.

Otto finally abandons the streambed and sinks down beside Annie. "Was it the heat?" she asks.

"No, too sudden." Otto points upstream. "I think it got stopped up somewhere."

The dam. The Careers' project. Suddenly, it's all over the live feed. Matilda's brilliant brainchild, a huge construction of rough-hewn logs and branches that has completely plugged the opening in the high rock wall of the ancient dam. It serves as a cork, stopping the reservoir's "leak" that fed the stream below. The one that my tributes were surviving on.

No wonder the Gamemakers haven't stepped in to drive the competitors together. The Careers were taking care of it for them, and it's always more fun that way. When the tributes learn to think like them.

Well, they're going to be disappointed today. I search my catalogue for vital supplies. Otto has brought in enough sponsor money to keep my tributes going indefinitely in hiding. That's the strategy that the cleverest victors have always won by, Keeping away from the action until all the other competitors have killed each other off. I turn virtual pages of matches and camping gear and medication until I find water bottles. I tap the display and find the picture a washed-out out, dim gray color.

_This item temporarily unavailable._

This is the one selection from the catalogue I am not allowed to send. And it's not because Panem is in the midst of a drought. I need only to push another button on my dashboard and one of the dozens of Avox attendants in the Mansion will hurry over with an ice-cold glass of the stuff. But I feel guilty when my tributes are in such need, so I take another coffee instead.

Otto and Annie don't understand the situation to the same extent I do. They don't know about the Careers' plot or the reason I can't come to their aid. But they slowly come to the realization that their source of sustenance has been taken away for the sole purpose of speeding the Games along. When Otto suggests heading upriver, they share a look of trepidation.

"Might as well," Annie replies steadily, but her face is blanching with heat and anxiety. She hops up and hikes her backpack over her shoulder. "But you know this is a trap, right?"

"I know," Otto sighs. "But what other choice do we have?"

None. They don't have any. Neither do the other two remaining tributes, Twelve's boy and Eleven's girl. They've been hiding out, the girl a mile or so downstream of Team District Four, and the boy just a few yards from the Careers' camp. The week-long respite is over. Everyone's being drawn together and it's not to sit down for a friendly fireside chat. My tributes are going into battle.

"Better get ready." Otto pauses to help Annie cinch her belt of knives around her waist. His spear leans against the bank beside him, already polished to glistening perfection. Otto gives the belt a final tug and glances up at her. He notices Annie's pallor and hesitates, tilting her chin up the way I did just before I sent her into the arena. "Are you going to be all right?" She nods unconvincingly.

"We're lucky, you know. We haven't seen anybody since the bloodbath." Otto just shakes his head and grabs his spear. "It has to happen eventually."

Has to happen. It has to. Inevitable. We've all known it from the start. It has to happen every year and my one request this year is that it happens fast.

The first year I mentored, the girl from my district was a twelve-year-old with no sponsors. She was bitten by a snake on the second day. I watched her writhe on the ground in excruciating pain for three days and eventually start to foam at the mouth. Her constant wails melted three long nights together in my memory. I was fifteen, and even then I could lie to the audience like nobody's business, but I wasn't able to lie to myself, not yet. I hadn't mastered cold and detached. When her moans finally faded, when her breathing slowed to a stop, I locked myself in the bathroom and wept for hours. She was the first and only tribute I ever shed a tear for.

I completely forgot about the boy. By the time I returned to my station, he was dead, too.

I picture Annie in that girl's place, and everything inside me starts to shut down. No, if they're going to die, I want it to be fast.

I watch my tributes trudge their way up the dry stream bed, which has formed a relatively flat, rocky path. The sun climbs overhead, harshly bright and searing. They don't talk, but the tension escalates with every footstep, every shift in the pebbles under their boots. My sixth cup of coffee has turned me into a fidgety wreck. The dread is almost strangling me and I can't get my heart rate down.

I can see the appeal of Haymitch's alcohol right now. It'd be nice to able to relax and go with the flow. The caffeine overdose has only heightened my need to be in control of _everything. _Especially those things which nobody but the Gamemakers can control. I find myself getting extremely irritated with the cameras in the arena, which alternate between several different vantage points. Every now and then the camera angle shifts to a perspective where I can't see both of my tributes clearly and I panic until the view switches back again. It's generally only for a few seconds at a time, but it feels like much longer.

The live feed overhead won't show the Careers, which only adds to the ominous feeling. They're setting another trap, or they're nearby, or they've turned on each other at last. Something is happening and I'm not allowed to know. I do see the girl from Twelve, picking her way cautiously through the woods some distance behind Annie and Otto and calling out occasionally in a trilling whistle that never receives an answer, although she often stops and listens for one.

My tributes stop for a brief rest, and Otto excuses himself into the trees to take care of business. That's when I suddenly realize that I _urgently _have to go, too. I start to rise from my chair but immediately sit back down. How can I think of something so inconsequential as my bladder at a time like this, when my tributes are headed into terrible danger? I can't afford to think about myself now.

An Avox servant comes by and refills my coffee cup. I hide my eyes, but I can still hear the liquid slosh into my mug tauntingly. I hold on for thirty more seconds until Otto returns to Annie's side and then I bolt for the men's room.

When I cross the circular room back to my cubicle, I feel eyes boring into my back. I recognize them as Johanna's without even turning. I've just about had it with her. After double-checking that Annie and Otto are still alive and alone, I pace over to District 7's cubicle and lean against the partition, folding my arms over my chest.

"Is this the way it's going to be forever, Mason?" She startles and makes an effort to block her screens from my view. Probably a good idea. Not that I'm spying, but if I should _happen _to glance over and determine the Careers' location, well, I'd take that.

"What are you talking about?" she snaps.

"This glaring and grudge-holding… it's not like you," I say. "You've never had a problem with confrontation. So confront me. I've just got a minute."

"I get to spend a minute with Finnick Odair?" Her nostrils flare and she studies me head to toe. "Where do I insert the quarter?"

For some reason, I feel heat flaring in my cheeks. Her biting words manage to crawl under my skin and reawaken a shame I had suppressed a long time ago. "Johanna, what is your issue with me?"

"Well, we've hit on it, haven't we?" She smirks triumphantly at my distress. "You're a pawn. You're a fake, self-centered, shallow little pawn. And frankly, I expected more out of you."

"Of course you did," I say sarcastically. "Everyone expects something out of me."

"I thought you would be on my side." Johanna lowers her voice. "I wanted you on my side. I could have used an ally. Now I'm in trouble."

"You wanted to be allies?" The thought surprises me, because she's got such a great thing going with Districts One and Two. "Then maybe you should have mentioned it instead of repeatedly attacking me. Then _maybe_ it wouldn't come down between us in the arena."

She glares at me with those flaming brown eyes and bites her lip. "I'm not talking about the arena," she whispers.

Then what could she be talking about? Outside of the arena, there is exactly one side. The Capitol's. And if she sets herself against it, she won't find any allies.

"Minute's up," I say hurriedly. "I've got to go. Good luck, Johanna."

I am not wishing her good luck. I'm wishing every member of the Career pack dead.

I return to District Four's station and settle myself in for more tortuous waiting. There's just more of the same- walking, kicking rocks, not talking, thinking about home, thinking of what might be coming, trying not to think of anything- and it's like the Games have restarted. This is Day One, and we don't know what to expect.

The streambed takes a short dip downward and Annie and Otto find a shallow pool of water that has been heated by the sun all day and is practically boiling. Still, it's wet and clean, and they drink deeply and splash their flushed faces. Otto even rinses his armpits. Then he takes his canteen and Annie's and bends down to fill them. Annie stands over him and holds up her hands to block the sun's harsh glare off the water from her eyes. Eventually, she gives up and paces a few steps up the far bank, absently snapping a twig off a low sagging branch.

A whistle breaks through the trees on the far bank. A short clear melody that I recognize. It's the tune that girl from Eleven called to Twelve's boy from her hiding place. I expect her to suddenly leap from the treetops with her little blowgun in hand, but she's nowhere nearby. The sound emanates instead from a small black-and-white plumed bird perched directly over Annie's head. She tenses and scans the branches above her, relaxing when she spots the bird. Her sea-green eyes widen in curiosity. "Otto," she whispers. "Look at this bird!"

He grunts and glances up just in time to see the axe whiz by and stick into the bird's branch. It gives a sharp cry of alarm and disappears into the foliage.

I leap to my feet. They're here. The Careers. Matilda has missed and sacrificed their surprise attack. Otto jumps up, abandoning the canteens at the bottom of the pool, grabs his spear, and takes a step in front of Annie. He strikes a defensive stance, holding his weapon high over his head, waiting for his adversaries to step into view. Annie fumbles to pull a knife out of her belt and ends up dropping two.

Fast. I wanted the battle to be fast. But there are the footfalls of Careers crashing forward through the undergrowth, the glint of metal in the sunlight, and it's happening too fast. Much too fast. I'm scrambling to keep up.

Another axe head whizzes toward Otto and he ducks and rolls forward. Annie dives too, back into the dry streambed, where she is open and exposed. The spear flies out of Otto's hand and hits its mark. Castor crumples to his knees, hands curled around the shaft protruding from his chest. Shannon drops beside him, tries to help him up, but he stumbles again and falls. Blade glances back at them briefly and then his face fills with rage. A great guttural roar explodes from his throat, and he draws back his arm and sends that double-edged boomerang slicing through the air with deadly precision.

Straight toward Annie. Pale, pale Annie.

"Get down!" Otto screams, but she's paralyzed with fear. Suddenly, he's colliding with her and they're both sprawling to the ground.

Then the flash of the boomerang's blade and a sickening tearing sound-

And my camera angle switches. I can't see what's happened. For some reason I am staring into Blade's triumphant face. I am screaming at him to get off my screen, screaming and cursing and then almost pleading. I catch a glimpse of my tributes lying flat on the ground. I only see blood. So much blood.

No. They're both dead. I'm sure they're both dead.

Wait. Suddenly the camera zooms in on Annie's face. She's lying crushed beneath Otto's limp, massive frame with the wind knocked out of her. Both of their clothes are soaked in red, and when she's finally able to suck in a breath and push up off the ground, more blood pours over her head and shoulders. She opens her eyes to see something rolling back down the incline of the riverbank toward her.

It's Otto's head. Severed. Eyes dilated in fear, mouth frozen open. Wide open.

Mid-scream.

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><p><strong>RIP Otto. It's strange how much I came to love this character. Especially considering, from the beginning, I knew he was going to die, so I created a "throw-away" rude jerk of an ally for Annie that I wouldn't miss. Except... his personality ran off on its own... and he turned out to be much different than I expected!<strong>

**And then... there's a hint of Johanna's issues showing up...  
><strong>

**Feedback? Just curious... who expected Finnick to say "Annie" or "Love" instead of coffee? ;)**


	17. Cracked

**Well, the moment you've all been waiting for, my take on crazy Annie. I couldn't wait any longer to post this chapter, even though it could probably use some more editing. Here goes.**

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><p>One long second, two, three, tick by before we comprehend what has happened.<p>

Four, five, before we react.

Annie lifts a hand off the ground and holds it up to her face. Blood, his blood, dribbles down her arm and drips into the growing puddle beneath her. Her pupils shrink to pinholes, her eyes go suddenly blank with shock.

My body reacts before my mind does and I lurch forward, retching once. My fancy, high-tech touch screen is suddenly covered with coffee.

_BOOM._

The sound of the cannon echoes in my ears, ringing through the hollowness of my mind. And only one thought echoes in there with it, but instead of fading with the cannon shot, it grows louder each time it ricochets.

_Otto's dead Otto's dead Otto's dead Otto's dead Otto's dead-_

_Annie is alive. _The second thought pushes in and interrupts my mantra. I snap back to the present and find myself screaming at the screen, "Run, Annie! _RUN!_"

She seems to snap back too, and leaps to her feet, shoving Otto's bloody body off her. The rest of him. I shudder again and feel more burning, mud-flavored bile creeping up my throat. I swallow it and hoarsely call for her run, run, run away from the Careers who have recovered before we have, who have pulled the spear out of Castor's shoulder. The blow missed his heart, and although he's almost passed out from pain, the wound doesn't appear mortal. Only Matilda is trying to staunch the gush of blood, the other two Careers gloat over their kill.

Annie stumbles away into the woods as fast as her shaky legs will carry her. Blade snorts in her direction. "Shannon, do you want to take the girl?"

"My pleasure," she murmurs.

Her pleasure.

_Run Annie run Annie run-_

She does run. She crashes through the trees, she zigzags like she's tipsy. And Shannon, who is a Career, Shannon, who has not just witnessed her ally's decapitation, who is not covered in her friend's blood, runs much, much faster.

Annie stumbles once and sprawls out on the ground. I think she's just tripped, but when she tries to stand, her knees buckle and she collapses again. Oh no, she's hurt. I half expect to find one of Matilda's axes sticking out of her back, but there's no sign of injury on her body. Shannon is still a long way behind her but quickly gaining ground.

"What are you doing?" I scream at Annie. "Get up! Get up, you idiot!" I'm cursing at her. She tries to rise again and suddenly doubles over, clutching her abdomen. A sound pushes out of her mouth, a deep moan laced with agony. Pain. She's in pain, but from where? Internal injury?

"What's wrong with you?" I demand. Another half-animal wail. I am frantic now. "What am I looking at?"

But deep down, I know. I am watching the arena break somebody.

I'm starting to choke and I still feel so sick, from Otto's gory death, from watching her suffer. She needs to stop, she needs to grieve, but she has to run. I need her to run. She's the only thing I have left. In one moment, I have lost him, I lost the sponsors, I lost my fans, I lost Snow's money. And Snow will take away whatever I have left. But I still have this pale little girl with the big green eyes that can see straight through me. And now that the boy is gone, maybe I can keep her.

But then there's Shannon crashing through the foliage, and I know this is the end. Annie's head jerks up, she sees the other girl smiling savagely, hungrily, and scuttles backwards on all fours like a crab until her back hits a tree trunk. Shannon clutches the still-bloody spear they pulled out of Castor. Annie watches her, face blank.

Shannon snorts. "All alone now, huh, princess? It's a scary world, isn't it?"

No response. Annie just keeps studying her silently. Something is wrong… something is so wrong with her eyes. They are huge and glassy and not registering fear or grief or emotion of any kind.

"It hurts to be alone, doesn't it?" A cruel light flickers in Shannon's face and she raises the spear. "Don't worry. It won't hurt much longer."

A single crimson drop rolls off the point of the spear and splashes to the dusty ground between them. Annie watches it fall, just the way she watched Otto's blood drip from her hand. Her face, her body, goes rigid. And then I see a flash of metal in the harsh sunlight.

And Shannon falls to her knees, gasping for air, grasping for the handle of the knife embedded in her chest.

The emptiness in Annie's eyes is instantly replaced by something else. A terror. A wildness. Another cry escapes her throat, a blood-curdling shriek, something chilling that doesn't sound entirely human. That sound shatters her. I watch the crack start in her eyes and run straight down to her heart before it splinters the rest of her.

_Boom._

My screen beeps congratulations. Annie's first kill.

The reaction in the Mentor's Mansion is instantaneous. Everyone's in an uproar. I hear shouts, cries of surprise, Brutus cursing and pounding the wall. Everyone is staring and a crowd gathers around me, wanting to know how Annie learned to fight. _I taught her that, _I think numbly. I taught her to kill like the rest of them.

I realize how perfectly the timing worked out in the arena- Annie's scream of anguish, the cannon shot. The other Careers come to the wrong conclusion, of course, and make no effort to follow Shannon. In fact, Matilda and Brutus scoop up their injured companion and, ignoring their mentors' colorful exclamations, start in the opposite direction, saying, "She'll catch up." No, she won't.

Annie rises to her feet, back pressed against the tree trunk, hand pressed to her mouth. Thank God she doesn't scream again. She just takes a few bewildered steps toward the body, morbidly curious, as if she is seeing it for the first time. I hear the murmuring start in the crowd of mentors gathered behind me. They're all watching my screen, rather unethically.

"Look at those eyes!"

"Do you see that?"

"Finnick!" I hear Johanna call from across the room. "Finnick, your girl _snapped!_"

Yes, I know. I know. But I'm still expecting her to snap back any moment. I expect her to recover, like she would from a physical injury, like she did from her swollen feet. A moment of rest and she'll be fine. But those eyes… the longer I watch them, the tighter everything twists inside me.

I may have lost her, too.

"Get her out of there," I demand through gritted teeth, to I don't know who. There's no response, just more whispering, some jeering laughter behind me. So I say it louder. "Somebody get her _out of there!_"

One of the Career mentors, Cashmere I think, smirks at me. "She has to win the Games first, Odair." He smirks because, of course, this is an impossibility. My hands clench into fists at my sides, I am filled with the irrepressible rage of someone who has forgotten everything he still has to lose. I whirl around in my swivel chair.

"Screw the Games!" some idiot screams at the top of his lungs. Some idiot named Finnick Odair.

Silence. I am met with horrible, terrifying silence.

"Screw the Games!" I repeat, choking on my own voice. "Screw the victor. Screw the arena. Screw Seneca Crane and his _brilliant_ arena!"

There are six cameras in the Mansion and if any of them are recording at the moment, I am a living dead man. But what does it matter now? Otto's dead and Annie's cracked and I can't remember anything important before or after them. I leap to my feet and proclaim my own death sentence. "Screw the Capit-"

I'm interrupted by rough hands on my shoulders, smashing me into the gray partition. A strong arm presses to my throat, cutting off my voice, cutting off my air, and I find myself looking down into Haymitch Abernathy's suddenly sober face.

"Shut up, Odair," he hisses. I struggle, but the old drunk is far more powerful than I would have imagined. He tightens his hold on me, pushes harder against my voice box. He's so close I can smell the alcohol on his breath, but there's not a trace of it left clouding his eyes. "You wanna keep that smart little tongue in your mouth, then _shut up._"

I gasp for air, and he lets go, shoving me into the wall. "You're still in this, Finnick. You still have a chance," he says in such a low voice that only I can hear. "You keep your mouth shut, or she'll pay for it, too. I know. I know it. Fight for her." He turns on his heel and disappears across the room into District Twelve's cubicle. I rub my neck in a daze and wonder what just happened.

I think Haymitch just saved my life.

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><p>Annie is stumbling through the woods now, wandering blindly away from the Careers, away from the battle and the bodies. She's escaped with nothing but her belt of knives and the pack on her back, which I think contains her sleeping bag and maybe something like an emergency flashlight. She's lost her food. She's lost her canteen. If we still have a chance, it's a shot in the dark and the target is painted black.<p>

The Capitol broadcast no longer shows live footage, but replays the battle highlights of the day. This is the first action in an otherwise boring Games, so the fight replays and replays and replays. I don't want to watch, but I can't tear my eyes away. I see Otto die again and again and again.

"_Get down!" _he screams. Last words. Then he smashes into Annie…

"_Get down!" _ He runs straight into her frozen form.

No, the third time through I see it. He tackles her. He shoves her out of the way and takes the blade himself.

It was no accident.

I absently reach up and finger the bruise that is forming where Haymitch grabbed my throat. _He loved you, you know, _I tell Annie bleakly.

I hope she doesn't know. I hope she doesn't feel responsible. If anyone should feel responsible, it's me. That was why I allied them, after all. So he could protect her. I just would never admit it to myself.

I never dreamed he would actually come through.

My neck throbs painfully each time I watch the scene. _I wonder how much it hurt…right before… _Suddenly, my throat is squeezing shut and I start to choke. I can't breathe right.

Someone asks me if I am all right, and I suppose I say yes because they disappear again, leaving me alone. I stumble to the bathroom, telling myself that I just need a moment to compose myself, splash a little water on my burning face. But I end up bent over the toilet, turning my stomach inside out. I try to pull myself together, but when I attempt a deep, calming breath another pain shoots through my throat and I double over again. I bring up breakfast, lunch, and dinner in reverse order.

I think of my uncle who trained me for the Games. All those rainy afternoons I spent in his basement watching year after year of Hunger Games highlights. He was always so proud that, even as a little kid, I was never squeamish about the goriest of the deaths. That made me strong, didn't it?

If he could only see me now. I don't feel so strong anymore.

When I return to my cubicle, all of the other victors have disbursed, lost interest in Annie who was only a momentary threat. A temporary contender. I find only a janitor inside, wiping my vomit off the touch screen dashboard. It still works fine, but parts of it don't glow anymore because I shorted it out. He promises to send me a technician to fix it as soon as possible. I just take my seat again without a word.

Twilight is falling and it's becoming overcast in the arena now, though the temperature has barely dropped below stifling. Annie finds her way back to the dry stream bed and follows it blindly toward the dam. There's a hollowed out cave not quite tall enough for her to stand in. She drops to her knees and crawls inside, shivering despite the heat. The rain starts then, mercy on the tributes whose source of water has been stolen. Annie draws herself into a tight little ball, and the occasional lightning flashes reflect eerily in her terrified eyes. No, I recognize the look on her face. Haunted. Annie has her own ghosts now.

I get the distinct impression that she doesn't know where she is. His blood has dried, reddish brown and clumpy, in her hair and on her arms. She starts to scratch it off, absently at first, then with increasing alarm. Her fingernails fly frantically until I see her own fresh red blood mixing with his. It's like she's trying to escape from her own skin.

It's like the old Annie's trying to get out.

If she's anywhere in that shell, I'm going to find her. I'm going to find her and I'm going to bring her home. I make it a threefold promise, because one is not enough, not in the arena. I promise myself. I promise Annie.

And I promise Otto.

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><p><strong>I could definitely use some feedback on this chapter. I'm not sure what I think about it. I had Finnick losing his cool and Haymitch restraining him in the plan from the very beginning of the story, but now it seems a little disjointed... Thoughts?<br>**

**I'm leaving on Sunday on a trip with my church, but I'm going to get the next chapter all ready to post when I return on Friday. That way, the break in between won't be terribly longer than usual. Good-bye my pretties! Until next time!  
><strong>


	18. Reaching

__**Hello**, **all! I have returned from my trip and here is an update! I actually wrote most of this chapter two months ago, in science class while my class was goofing off. :P It was one of the first scenes I ever wrote in the story, but I had to go back and do a lot of editing. I actually proofread this three times. That's unusual for me. So I hope it's good, enjoy!**

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><p><em>Day 8… or Day 9… still morning, I think…<em>

All I know is she's gone.

Annie's gone.

Tattered clothes, sunken cheeks, matted hair have replaced the girl I trained just a week ago. She's nearly unrecognizable. But it's her eyes, her empty eyes, that rip me apart. Those soft, deep green pools have a wild, feral look, like a snared animal. Trying desperately to get free, but not even sure how she got trapped in the first place.

I didn't realize how beautiful her eyes were, back when they had something in them.

She has long since abandoned playing for the cameras. She's probably forgotten they exist. Everything but the arena has ceased to exist in her mind, and she no longer even seems aware of her surroundings. She's lost in the horrors she has seen. Tucked away in the entrance of a damp little cave, Annie relives the last hours again and again until her breath comes in short, hysterical gasps.

Night falls. Shannon's face illuminates the sky. Blade and Matilda, who began to suspect something went wrong quite a while ago, go absolutely berserk when they realize she is dead and her killer lives to fight another day. There's no doubt in my mind that they would hunt Annie down in a matter of hours, if it weren't for Castor's injury slowing them down. The Careers can't afford to split up now, not in the middle of the night, in the pitch blank woods, not with one wounded.

This has bought us time. But not nearly enough time for the kind of healing Annie needs.

The sun rises, the night wears on into day. No change. She's only yards from the stream bed, where a thin trickle of rainwater still flows, but she doesn't drink. Doesn't wash away Otto's blood. No matter how hard I plead with the screen, she won't get up and look for food. Annie curls her knees up to her chin and rocks back and forth, hands clasped tightly over her ears. She's too broken to even cry.

But I'm not.

I try to hide it at first, because of the cameras, although it's one of the few freedoms I have as a mentor. We can't scream or curse their fates, but it's not unusual to see a mentor weep for a dead tribute. In fact, it's pretty well accepted, especially because if the kid was a favorite, Panem weeps along with them. In the way a very obsessive sports fan might cry after a disappointing loss, that is, for themselves. There's no real grief involved. Never grief.

But this has never been my style. Finnick Odair has never shown any kind of emotion in public except for cocky self-assurance. And then there's Brutus and Enobaria to think of, two cubicles down, who don't really take me seriously anyway, especially since Annie cracked and I had a little meltdown and had to be restrained by Haymitch Abernathy. I don't feel like weeping would help my cause with them any. But eventually, just like everything else in the Games, it's inevitable.

Pallindra finds me out first when she flies into the cubicle in a tizzy about all the sponsor money that is lost now, all the prominent Capitol people who are irked with us. But she stops short when she sees the way I'm leaned back in my swivel chair, hot tears spilling down my cheeks. She pats my shoulder awkwardly and tells me that it's not my fault, Otto was a bonehead and we'll have better luck next year. She assumes that I am mourning for the chance I lost to raise a victor, to go home.

But I am mourning for Otto, who was not a bonehead. He was not like me at all. Otto was a hero when it mattered, he gave his life for someone he barely knew. Otto decided not to follow the rules of the Game, and now… I can't even thank him.

And I mourn for Annie, because the arena finally broke her. In a world that doesn't even weep for the dead, I weep for the living.

There's nothing I can do for her now, nothing I can send to help. All those thousands of dollars in contributions I received are null and void now that Otto is gone. Worthless. They're worthless.

Day two comes and goes. I silently beg Annie to sleep or to eat, but I guess I don't do either. I haven't rested at all since Otto's death, and my hands are shaking with fatigue. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know this is wrong. I shouldn't be letting myself go like this, but it's so hard to care anymore.

Almost before you can walk in District Four, they teach you how to swim. And the very next thing you learn when you've mastered that is how to help those who can't. I still remember that list of instructions I received, sitting on the hot sand in a row with the other little boys who proved to have a bit of strength. The very first rule for helping a drowning victim is that you can't let them pull you down with them, or you both go under. You both sink, and neither one of you ever comes up.

In other words, I have to keep my head above water.

_Think, Finnick, _I command myself, rubbing at my burning eyes. There's got to be something. I've got to have something. But Annie doesn't even have enough sponsor money for a cracker. I check my box one more time to be certain. Her side is still empty. But Otto's side, which should have been cleared out days ago, still hosts a single slip of paper. I pull it out and examine it, confused. Snow's check.

_Finnick's discretion. _

I can use this for whatever I want.

Snow can still come after me. He can punish me for Otto's death. But he cannot change what he wrote on that dotted line.

I spend too much time debating my first gift. Something to jog Annie's memory as well as fill her stomach. I settle on a small pot of broth, because I'm guessing she is too sick to stomach much else now. And maybe it will remind her of feeding Mags in the hospital room an eternity ago. I even find a little bowl shaped like a conch seashell to contain it. A reminder of home.

Annie jumps back when she sees the parachute. She retreats into the mouth of the cave and just watches the blinking canister with terror in her eyes. It takes her a solid hour to calm down and muster the courage to approach it.

I nearly tear my hair out.

Finally, finally, she scoops up the little container, unscrews the lid. And stares uncomprehendingly at the steaming seashell bowl. "Please eat," I whisper. She lifts the shell, turns it slowly in her hand, examining the bumps and grooves thoroughly with her fingers.

And then she dumps it out.

I moan and slump in my seat. But Annie just keeps studying that shell. She holds it up to her ear, dribbling the last bit of broth down her neck, into her collar. I don't know if she can hear the ocean or not, but something about the seashell is comforting to her. She keeps it clamped to the side of her head for the rest of the night.

I'll try again in the morning.

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><p><em>Day 10… 10:32 AM…<em>

How much longer do we have?

Castor doesn't seem to be improving. His wound is worse than it appeared at first, he tore something crucial in his shoulder and likely shattered the bone. His mentors had to send strong pain medication just to get him through the night. I doubt he's going to heal. But I hope he doesn't die, because then his companions will immediately come after Annie. As long as he's half-alive like this, he's weighing the group down. But Careers aren't known for their patience or compassion. How much longer before they just leave him for dead, anyway?

Annie builds up a collection of the gifts I send her. Piles them around her in the brush, biscuits and gravy, toast, apples and bananas, but she still won't eat.

What is going on in her head? I stare into those vacant eyes and just ache inside. I'm not oblivious to the whispers around me. I know what everybody's saying, but I refuse to believe it. She's not crazy. She can't be. Annie's in there somewhere, and I just need something, anything, to jog her memories. To bring her out again.

It's the second week in the arena, so the money goes fast. I have to be careful now, because when it runs out, it's all over. I rack my brain, trying to remember what my favorite meal from Four used to be. Good old smoked cod. I find a succulent-looking platter in the catalogue, complete with lemon wedge and tartar sauce and all the necessary spices. It's pricey but I'm desperate, because she hasn't touched anything else I've sent. It's been almost three days, she must know she's hungry. Maybe… maybe she's simply lost the will to live.

Annie catches the parachute as it falls, opens the canister, rubbing at her bleary eyes with a grimy hand. For a moment, her eyes close as she breathes in the mouth-watering scent. Finally, I think I'm going to have some success. But the moment she catches a glimpse of her meal, she flings it away like she's touched a hot coal and runs for the mouth of the cave, still dragging the parachute with its canister behind her. She doesn't make it far before she's doubled over retching.

I don't understand until the camera zooms in on the cod laying in a bare patch of earth. It was prepared in a Capitol kitchen, of course, by Capitol people who don't like to look at anything remotely fishy, like the scales or the eyes or the mouth. So naturally, they cut the head off.

I just sent Annie a headless fish.

Moron. I'm an idiot. I've probably driven her past the point of no return now, if she wasn't already there. I watch her curl into a ball and wail, and I know that she's seeing it all again, hearing the whistle of the blade, landing in a pool of his blood. I know because I'm reliving everything with her. How could I be so _stupid_? I slam my head on my dashboard so hard I see stars and start to wonder if my own sanity level might be slipping.

_Get a grip. You can't let her pull you down with her._

If she never snaps out of this, if she truly goes insane, Annie doesn't stand a chance. The Capitol always insists that the Games are fair, every tribute has an equal shot at winning. But while it's true that the Gamemakers don't choose who wins, they clearly get to choose who loses. The sponsors aren't the only ones who play favorites. I watched my competition suffer all kinds of excruciating ends while I was spared from most of the arena's dangers. Why?

Because I was pretty. I was charming, I was cocky, I was strong. People liked me and didn't want to watch me die. There's a reason most every victor is tall, strong, reasonably attractive, reasonably likable. And despite the horrible things we've seen and done in the arena, there's a surprising lack of mental illness among us, at least the kind that other people can see. Because if the audience is going to worship the victors like gods, we'd better be able to at least pretend we're perfect.

And the other tributes, the broken ones, who could never pull it off? A simple push of a button always takes care of them.

No, nothing's fair here. But it seems somehow worse, what they've done to her. She was so innocent. She lost everything. And now she's alone in the arena. I'm trapped in there with her, but she's still totally and completely alone. And I know that if she dies in the arena, I am never escaping from it, either.

Another morning passes. Another afternoon. It must hurt, the way she curls herself up so small like that. It's hours before she relaxes the slightest bit and her restless hands need something to do. Something destructive, I can tell. But I'm relieved when this time, she chooses to tear up the thin parachute from the gift I sent instead of her own skin. She rips it into tiny pieces and sticks her hand out of the cave, sending the shreds of fabric twirling in the breeze, out of sight.

Another hour of waiting. Annie becomes fascinated with unscrewing the canister. She seems to have forgotten the headless fish incident already. She picks through the contents, sniffing the lemon wedge and grimacing at the sour smell. That quickly gets tossed aside. She studies the condiment containers tucked away on the side of the canister, and then opens them one by one. Tartar sauce. Also rejected.

I watch Annie shake a bit of salt out into her hand, sniff it, taste it hesitantly. Her eyes briefly flicker recognition, because it tastes of the sea. She eagerly reaches for the other container, shakes a little black powder into her palm. She takes a deep whiff, drawing the pepper into her nostrils, then chokes and coughs and sneezes until there are tears streaming from her eyes.

But she's also laughing. For some strange reason she's laughing. All of a sudden, she's laughing and she's sobbing so hard that I can't understand her whispered word, the first thing she's spoken since Otto's death. But she says it again, louder. My name.

"Finnick…" And then she raises her head and shouts it, happy sobs shaking her body. "_Finnick!"_

She remembers something, anything. No, she remembers _me._

"Annie!" I call back, and I choke on tears, too. Suddenly I am laughing and crying with her.

I am vaguely aware of the red light glowing on my dashboard. All of Panem is watching this touching scene unfold. I'm surely being filmed as well. But for this moment it's just me and Annie and my hand pressed against the screen as if I can feel her.

She needed that pepper shaker, after all.

* * *

><p>I don't know how long we're like this. Half an hour, three hours, a day and a half… it doesn't seem to make a difference. Pallindra suddenly bursts in, spins my chair around, grabs my shoulders. She thrusts a bundle of papers into my hands.<p>

"Finnick!" she cries, face flushed with delight. "She has sponsors! She has sponsors, Finnick!"

I stare at her blankly for a moment. "Annie does? These are Annie's?" Well, they aren't Otto's, but my mind is still pretty cloudy. I don't understand why she has sponsors. Yes, she's turned a corner, reality has intruded on her nightmares, but she's a long way from being a competitor again.

"Yes! And there are more people waiting in the courtyard. They're waiting for you!" Pallindra waves over her shoulder and looks at me expectantly.

"Oh!" She wants me to meet with the sponsors again. I probably need to give a speech. I don't understand their sudden interest in Annie, but I'm not about to let this opportunity slide. I leap to my feet, swiping at the stray tears that are still leaking down my cheeks. "I'll be right there. Just let me… let me clean up."

I start toward the bathroom, but Pallindra grabs my arm. "Don't you dare!" she snaps. I'm surprised by the intensity of her tone. "Whatever you do, Finnick Odair, do _not _stop crying."

Strange. I guess she's hoping to recover the sympathy cards. Bewildered, I follow her out the swishing automatic doors, taking a deep breath of fresh air as I step out to the courtyard, where my adoring public awaits.

A cheer rises from the crowd as I step up to a hastily established platform. I have to grasp the sides of the podium because the shaking has spread to my entire body. The cameras zoom in on me and the crowd continues to scream my name. I see my haggard face plastered on screens around the courtyard, probably being broadcast across Panem. My eyes are dull and bloodshot and I look drunk, hung-over at best, but the girls are still shrieking at my closeness. As long as I appear larger than life on the televisions, they love me.

Those screens feature me as I tap my microphone once, then flicker to a picture of Annie in her sea-green mermaid dress at the interviews. Radiant. Healthy. And then a message in bold lettering flashes across the bottom of these images that suddenly makes everything clear.

_Finnick loves Annie._

It's everywhere. Displayed on the screens, on signs that my fans are holding high over their heads, whispered by the lips of the girls that are weeping and pining for me. Brilliant. It's a brilliant strategy. Annie will not lack for anything as long as Panem thinks she's breaking my heart.

But if it was true… Well, we could both get in serious trouble.

And suddenly, I'm terrified that it might be true.

* * *

><p><strong>Ladies and gentlemen, the original star-crossed lovers of the Hunger Games! I love how Finnick is the last person to find out. KatnissPeeta, eat your heart out. ;) Just kidding. Love you guys.**

**Why do Capitol people not seem to remember that this has been done before by the time the 74th Hunger Games roll around, four years later? Because Capitol people are stupid and short-sighted and forgetful. That's my explanation!  
><strong>

**And if any of y'all came in late or just forgot the significance of pepper in Annie and Finnick's relationship, I refer you back to Chapters 2 and 7. "_This is_ _pepper. It _will _burn your eyes." _:D  
><strong>


	19. Rumors

**Hello again!  
><strong>

**Sooo... this chapter... *sigh* this chapter... So much was supposed to happen in this chapter. I had big plans, you know? Action and intrigue... But Finnick got in the way. He pointed out that he was on the verge of having a breakdown, too, and asked for a breather, just a short one, and you know, I HAVE put him through so much... So I allowed it. Then I was ready to go again, but he's all like, "NOOOO! I wanna talk about my feelings!" And then I say, "Finnick, you've had eighteen chapters to do that if you weren't in denial. Now you're screwing everything up." But you know... I kinda had to let him, because... I didn't want to shut him down or he might never talk to me again.  
><strong>

**So... That's what happened to this chapter. I blame Finnick.  
><strong>

* * *

><p><em>Finnick loves Annie. <em>

_Finnick LOVES Annie._

_FINNICK loves ANNIE?_

Well, it might explain why I'm such a wreck.

But why is Finnick the last to know? How do _these people_ know? Who started this rumor?

It doesn't matter. It's not like the gossip or the signs they hold are a new occurrence. It's not like they mean anything. I'm pretty sure you can purchase a rally sign anywhere in the Capitol printed with "Finnick Loves" and then a fill-in-the-blank space. For repeated use.

No, Finnick doesn't love Annie.

Finnick _can't _love Annie.

I'm not _allowed_ to fall in love.

Am I?

Either way, I guess this is our new angle. There's no time to think of future consequences. If I want Annie to survive the next few days, the time to act is now.

A hush falls over the audience, the hysterical girls quiet into soft sobbing. I realize they're waiting for my speech, but my mouth has gone dry and my mind has gone blank and I find myself glancing back at Pallindra for guidance.

_Talk about her, _she mouths. Then she snakes a finger down her cheek as a reminder to keep crying.

I don't need to be reminded.

I start at the beginning with Annie's tale, her childhood in Four, her close-knit family, those mop-top brothers. Her reaping. The first day on the train, when she cried and I tried to kiss her and she took evasive measures. That one gets a laugh.

Caring for Mags in the hospital. Training her privately, her surprising skill with the knives. The alliance I set up with Otto that was admittedly for her own protection.

The long days she took care of him in the arena. The single heartbeat when he died for her. The cracks in her eyes now that they will never understand.

I remind the Capitol crowd that there are people back home who will still be broken apart by her death long after they have forgotten her name. I tell Panem that I've never heard her play the flute. But I want to, someday. And I don't force the tears.

I'm vaguely aware that up until this point in my life, Mags was the only person who had ever seen me cry. Now, all of Panem can boast the privilege, and I imagine it's _very_ entertaining for them. There's a big part of me that wants to be humiliated, to crawl under my podium and hide. But then I remember that it's alright for me to lose it now, because... I'm _acting_, of course_. _And apparently, I'm pretty convincing. Many of the Capitol citizens were weeping before I even began. Now, they could water the lush flower gardens. Everywhere I look, I see red eyes, sniffly noses, drenched hankies. The emotion enclosed by these stone walls is sky-rocketing. I glance over my shoulder once and see Pallindra holding out our sponsor box. Check after check after check slips through the slot.

I also see my fellow mentors standing in the doorway, glaring at me and my sudden influx of sponsors. I have pulled just about the lowest trick in the book. Declaring my love for my tribute? Completely unfair.

Except I never do. I talk until my words run out, and I don't remember half of what I say, but I never declare my love for Annie.

I don't have to.

I finally tilt my microphone down, take a step back from the podium, watch the last of the checks filled out by my fans who are now huge fans of Annie as well. Something bubbles up inside me that I can't put a name to. It might be hope, I'm not sure. I don't recognize it.

Now that the immediate danger has passed, now that I know Annie will not die of hunger or thirst, I allow myself to take a deep breath. It's the first time I notice that I don't feel well at all. The past few days have taken a huge toll on me, and now that I've I finished my speech, my knees are wobbling and I really just need to sit for a minute. But as soon as I step down from the platform, I'm swamped by reporters shoving their microphones down my throat, wanting to hear all the details of my devastating new romance. I just smile and nod and say "no comment" and try to remember how to look like their sexy superstar instead of a guy who's barely hanging on. Their voices are garbled and my head is ringing so loudly I can hardly hear them, anyway.

Pallindra appears beside me, whispering about what a genius I am, how completely convinced I have the sponsors. I follow her up the stairs to the Mansion, ignoring the resentful looks the other mentors are casting my way, feeling like I'm going to throw up even though there's absolutely nothing in my stomach. Little black spots swarm my vision and I have to stop and grasp the stair rail for support until they clear. In the background, I faintly hear someone ask if my strategy is legal. Someone else asks if it is the least bit ethical, and then loudly over all the buzzing voices I hear Johanna demand, "What the heck is _wrong_ with him?"

Pallindra suddenly stops talking and grabs my arm, and then she's looking at me, _really _looking at my face, and wanting to know if I've eaten today. I haven't, and she asks if I ate yesterday, and I guess I didn't, and I'm glad she doesn't ask about the day before. Instead, she drags me back to the District 4 cubicle so fast that I almost black out again. She makes me sit and brings me a glass of water and a bowl of something hot that I hardly taste and fights back the inquiring minds at our doorway.

I turn back to the screen and watch Annie. She's still in that cave, but she's gathered brush to disguise the opening. No, she's not _still_ there, I realize she's returned. She's bathed in the trickle of stream water. She's making camp for a night of sleep. She's _trying _to survive. I heave a big sigh and then kick myself when I remember that Annie never actually got anything to eat.

When she opens the bowl of soup I send her, she wolfs it down greedily. She eats like Otto. I'm weak with relief.

Pallindra returns and tells me to lie down, but I refuse. She promises me that she'll keep watch every moment, she'll wake me if anything happens, but I won't listen. The thought of leaving the screens panics me, and I protest loudly, _"Annie needs me… Annie needs me…"_

Pallindra bends down in front of me and leans in so close I can see the violet-colored contacts in her stern eyes. "You're no help to her like this, Finnick."

And there's no good argument I can make when I'm shaking so badly. I kick off my shoes and drop onto the hard cot. My whole body hurts from exhaustion, but my mind is wide awake and racing, hypnotized by the live feed of the Games projected over my head. I can't watch anymore, or I'm going to crack, just like Annie did. I turn on my side, stare at the tiny checks on the gray partition, will myself to relax, or at least breathe…

I finally lean over the side of the cot, unlace one of my shoes and resort to tying knots. Tying and untying. I work the soft thread into coils and loops and impossibly complex tangles, then I pull it out and start again. Again and again until my heart rate slows. And I try to remember Annie's knot, the Merman's knot, the secret of tightly binding two impossible opposites. Holding them together against all odds…

I think I almost have it when my vision splits in two, and I'm out cold.

* * *

><p><em>Day 11… 9:45 AM…<em>

Pallindra must have drugged me. There's no other way I could have slept dreamlessly for twelve uninterrupted hours. Not during the Games. I'm sure of it, because even when I sit up and realize where I am, there's no jolt of adrenaline, just a calm haziness that I struggle to clear from my mind. When some of fog finally lifts, I find Pallindra still sitting faithfully in my chair, bloodshot eyes glued to Annie's screen. Her makeup is smudged and her lavender wig lays haphazardly on the dashboard, revealing her real tangle of dirty blond hair underneath. I'm shocked by how _human_ she looks.

"Thank you," I murmur as I rise and come to stand behind her. She turns and smiles brightly at me.

"Look who's up! Feeling better?"

I nod silently, and she allows me to take my seat, still all grins as if she has something exciting to tell me. "My goodness, you were a mess last night. Feverish, I dare say. Everybody was pressing in, wanting to know what the matter was. And you know what I told them?"

I turn to her, knowing she won't shut up until I ask. "What did you tell them?"

"I told them that you made yourself sick with worrying about Annie. Just _sick _with it. Because you're in love, you know?" And she just glows with pride in her ingeniously clever lie.

I laugh and give her a classic Finnick-wink. "You fooled them, babe."

I'm relieved when she exits the cubicle, promising to come back and take another turn later. And I'll probably have to let her, because I slipped so awfully close to the edge last night. I have to be here for Annie. I can't let my head go under again.

I take up my old job once more, just watching her. I watch her eat breakfast and then pull some rope out of her backpack. She goes and sits by that tiny trickle of a stream and drinks, washes her face, washes the long fingernail scrapes on her arms. I watch her sit down on the bank and start tying a net and wonder if she really thinks she's going to find fish in the puddle that's left in the riverbed. I watch her hold her knots up to her still-not-quite-right eyes for careful examination while the breeze ruffles her tangled hair, ever so slightly. I watch and I try to deny it, one more time, just for grins. Then I give up.

I've got to admit, this isn't how I imagined falling in love would feel. At all. Mostly it just feels like falling.

I don't know what I was expecting. A burning passion, maybe, something _loud, _easily recognizable, that would completely blot all the other girls from my memory. A flame, not this squeezing pain in my chest, the simple, quiet fact drilling into my mind that I _need her to live._ I realize the closest I've ever come to this feeling was watching Mags crumple to the ground in that banquet hall. Knowing that if she didn't make it, a part of me would die, too. Except with Annie, I know it will be much more than a part.

Why couldn't I have realized it before I sent her into the arena? I stopped myself, I guess. I stopped myself from realizing it just like I stopped myself from kissing her. It just would have made everything too painful. As if it wasn't already. But somehow, I still knew she was special.

I try to think back to the first moment I knew. The morning of Games? No, before that. Watching her shine in her interview? Before that. Hearing her talk about her family? Our conversation in the training center in the middle of the night? Seeing that bowl of broth in her hand? A little voice in my head just keeps telling me to back up. I knew something was different about her that first day on the train, listening to her talk about love, like it was something worth waiting for. Something worth fighting for.

Was it love at first sight? Probably not, especially considering how she nearly rendered me blind me. But it became love sometime.

For me, anyway. Annie still has no clue. Of course I never said anything, it wouldn't have done her any good to know before she went into the Games. She only would have found it distracting, maybe even disturbing. And even if, by some stretch of the imagination, she had feelings for me then, she's been through so much now, an entire lifetime in three days, that I'm surprised she even remembers my name. No, Annie won't ever love me back. And I don't think I'd want her to. A lifetime of pining for the Capitol's slave is something I would never wish on her, especially broken as she already is.

So in short, loving her is stupid. And pointless. And it hurts.

I love her anyway.

* * *

><p>This net Annie is weaving is far bigger than it needs to be to catch fish that aren't even available. I wonder if she's just making it because she can, because the easy work helps her cope with things. But then… no, she's packing up and she's flinging the net over her shoulder and setting off into the woods. I don't like it. I don't like that she's leaving the safety of her little cave. Annie's apparently still weak from the past several days, because she only travels for half an hour before she's tired out. She rests a moment before getting to work, hanging a snare in a tree branch maybe eight feet off the ground. It's difficult for her, because she's too short and not a great climber, but eventually she succeeds in setting a trap for… what? I've hardly seen any wild game in this arena at all, and besides, she's got plenty of dried meat in her pack. I made sure she was set.<p>

Is she looking for other tributes? With a human-sized net? No, that's a Career strategy, not something Annie would think to do.

_That was _your _strategy, _I remind myself. That was my strategy in the second week of the Games, scared out of my wits with a limp arm, an infected wound on my shoulder. Annie is a far cry from as desperate as I was.

Right?

Speaking of the wounded, there are the Careers again. They covered a little ground yesterday, but Castor was obviously struggling. Matilda unwrapped his wound last night and found it all sorts of colors that it shouldn't be. "It's looking better," she lied, not to Castor, but to Blade, who is growing fed-up with the whole situation. She cleaned and wrapped him back up and they swore to find little Miss Cresta and kill her in the morning.

This morning, Castor couldn't move at all.

It's the middle of the day now and his last dose of pain medication is wearing off. As the afternoon wears on, his moans morph into gasps and sharp cries of misery. Matilda sits beside him and blots his forehead with a cloth, but there's nothing she can do. No silver parachute appears, no more pills to ease his suffering. I realize One's mentors are broke. The sponsors have given up on this kid. Blade paces anxiously a few yards away into the woods, and even from the distance he hears Castor's wail. They would be so easy to track now.

"Make- him- _shut- up!_" he snarls over his shoulder at Matilda. The first words he's spoken all day.

"Can't you see I'm _trying_?" she snaps back at him, but she's scared and frustrated, too.

Eventually, a gift descends from the sky. Sleep syrup, but it's not from Gloss or Cashmere. Brutus sent it. To quiet him? To prevent the Careers from being followed?

Annie isn't following them. She's stationed herself against a tree trunk a couple hundred yards from her snare, sharpening her knives a bit obsessively. I hear her humming under her breath and relax a bit. For whatever reason, she seems more at ease now than she's been the entire duration of the Games. I wonder if her brief break from reality gave her some relief from all her troubling memories. I suppose that's a good thing, but she can't afford to be cluelessly carefree.

The Careers make no more forward progress. They're camped out, waiting for Castor to awaken, waiting to see if the sleep syrup made a dent in his recovery. Blade is dozing, propped up against a tree trunk in the late afternoon sun, when a branch snaps a short distance away. He and Matilda sit bolt upright and listen intently for the next sound. Nothing, but there's a shadow of movement in the trees, and Blade leaps to his feet, grabbing his silver boomerang and racing forward.

It's the boy from Twelve, running for his life. His hands are full. He's carrying backpacks and canteens and all kinds of sponsor gifts that were not sent to him. I realize that the Careers have caught him in the midst of a full-fledge raid on their camp.

"Get back here!" Blade roars. He flings the boomerang and I see Otto's head rolling again. But this time, his aim is off and the blade slashes through the boy's shirt sleeve. He stumbles, cries out, grabs his arm, and his hand is bloody when he pulls it away. But then the boomerang shoots back and he's alert again, diving and rolling under it, taking off through the woods as fast as his legs will carry him.

Blade chases him for well over an hour, but it's hard to track a light-footed kid from Twelve through the underbrush that he is so accustomed to navigating. Eventually, the boy takes shelter, nestled high in the limbs of one of the giant redwood trees, obscured by the foliage. He tears a strip of fabric off his shirt and bandages his arm, and Blade, losing the trail of dripping blood he was following, paces around beneath the tree for several long minutes before turning around, muttering curses under his breath.

"He's obviously familiar with the woods," I tell Haymitch with a note of respect for his tribute. "I thought they kept you out of them in Twelve."

"Yeah," Haymitch mutters quietly. "He's been under."

"Under what? Under the fence?" I blurt out. Haymitch suddenly turns and glares at me with a cold warning in his eyes.

"Underground. In the mines. You learn to keep a sure foot down there," he says evenly, but I know that's not what he was referring to. It crosses my mind that Haymitch is trying hard to protect this kid, this kid's family, from punishment _outside _the arena, which is strange when he seems to be doing so little to help him within the Games. Haymitch bewilders me. He spent so many years mocking me only to save me from my own stupidity and the Capitol authorities.

To say I don't understand him would be an understatement.

I don't spend long talking to Haymitch. I don't spend long doing much besides watching Annie, although I do manage to eat occasionally, and before the day is over Pallindra even convinces me to shower, which was needed a lot more than I care to admit. It's a strange feeling, being mentally present in the real world outside of the arena again, noticing people besides Annie. I talk to more sponsors and find that they are still completely caught up in the idea of Annie and our non-existent romance, if "romance" is the right word for the sordid stuff they've made up about the two of us. Of course, these people can find evidence to compliment any rumor they create, and if my tears and near-breakdown at her suffering weren't enough, they've turned up security footage of the two of us sneaking in and out of the penthouse in the middle of the night. The very thing that I was afraid we'd be punished for is now just further proof of our involvement before the Games. I hate tarnishing her reputation like that, but if it's keeping her alive, I won't deny any of the rumors they create. This is the lesser of two evils, I suppose.

After all, they think she's just another one of the girls. Another pretty face that won my favor for a night, and for some reason the emotion carried over when I saw her in the arena. I wonder how long before it occurs to them that if Annie really had a hold on my heart, they would lose me. The Capitol would lose their favorite source of entertainment, their favorite slab of celebrity meat. Or at the very least, they would have to share me, and Capitol people hate sharing. But I'll live in the grace period as long as it lasts.

The longer I talk to anyone else, the bigger I stretch the smile across my lips, the more I wish I was talking to her instead. But I have to be content just watching Annie for now. When I return to the screens, I'm unnerved by how silent she is. How still the trees are around her. I get an ominous feeling tickling my spine, like I did just before the battle with the Careers three days ago. I sense something about to happen, someone nearby, even though that should be impossible…

There's a loud rustling in the trees just over her shoulder. The spring of her snare, a sharp cry that the victim can't quite stifle. Annie's head jerks around, her breathing quickens as she reaches for knives. I recognize the look that crosses her face. It's the look of a hunter on the prowl.

But what I heard wasn't an animal sound. No, there's no game caught in that net. Just a girl. I heard a girl's scream. My breath catches sharply in my throat when I recognize her.

_Cassandra_.

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><p><strong>Hope you enjoyed this chapter despite all the trouble Finnick and his stupid emotions caused me writing it... And thanks for the SIXTEEN REVIEWS for Chapter 18! That made my day! :D I love new records! Let's set another!<strong>


	20. Willow

**Hello again! :) Well, this chapter is about half as long as I was intending it to be... I realized that my chapters are just getting longer and longer all the time and it has already been a week since my last post, so I decided to break chapter 20 in half. I didn't think you guys would mind. After all, this chapter has a lot of stuff in it, and short chapters mean more updates! :D And hopefully in the long run, more reviews!**

**We didn't break the record last time, guys. :( In fact, I lost some of you. That makes me sad. If this story is taking a turn that's not to your liking, I'm happy to hear constructive criticism! Just please be patient with my shortcomings. This IS my first novel-length, after all. :)**

* * *

><p>The memories suddenly wash over me like a tidal wave.<p>

Annie creeps through the underbrush and presses her back to a tree trunk, peering cautiously around to see who has sprung her trap.

Not Cassandra. Of course it's not Cassandra. It's not even Matilda, the freckled loudmouth who reminded me so much of her. No, it's the girl from Eleven suspended two feet off the ground, twisting wildly in the snare, limbs tangled in the netting. She has one arm poked through the woven loops, straining to reach the little blowgun dropped in the dirt, just a few taunting inches from her fingertips.

I take a moment to steady myself because I feel winded, like someone punched me in the gut. My reaction makes no sense. Dark-skinned, quiet, thin from the constant hunger and danger, the only thing this girl has in common with my old district partner is that she's trapped in a fishing net. She struggles a moment longer, still oblivious to Annie's silent approach.

Until Annie shrieks at the top of her lungs.

The girl startles and whips around, pulling her arm back through the net. She catches sight of Annie through the trees and recoils as far as she can into the net, weaving her fingers nervously through the thick fibers. Something like terror floods her face, paralyzes her graceful features. It doesn't make sense until I see Annie. This is the first moment in the Games that she is on the offensive, and with the net and the knives, she actually has an advantage. But the look that is back in her eyes… the wildness. I suppose you could even call it madness. Yes, if I was seeing her for the first time, if I didn't know her, I wouldn't doubt that she was mad.

Or maybe it's only _because _I know her that I can't see it, that I assumed- no, _insisted_- she was holding onto a thread of sanity. Just because she remembered me, it doesn't mean she's recovered from her trauma. And the longer I look at her, the less I really believe that she's in full control right now. Annie draws a long, double-edged knife out of her belt and advances toward the snare. All I notice is that her hands don't shake anymore.

Because Annie knows she can kill. She's done it before.

"District Four?" The girl from Eleven finally breaks the tense silence. She speaks forcefully, like she's trying to seem bigger than she is. "District Four, don't make me wait!"

Annie takes another step forward, curling her fingers through the net. Her mouth is set in a hard line, there is no expression on her face. The other girl scowls.

"Do it fast, Four! Cruelty is for cowards." She bravely meets Annie's eye, although Annie's blank look is obviously unnerving her. "I know you can hear me!"

Annie lunges forward and takes hold of the girl's arm, jerking her closer, and grabs the collar of her shirt. She draws her face up to the net until they are just inches apart. "Tell me where I am," she demands, simply enough.

The girl from Eleven frowns. "Excuse me?"

"_Tell me- where- _I am!" Annie hisses through clenched teeth. There's sweat breaking on her forehead, she's clearly troubled by her own disorientation.

"What? What kind of question is-"

The girl from Eleven suddenly has a knife blade pressed to her jugular.

"We're south of the dam. Half a mile from the stream. Are you lost? Because I have no idea what's on the west side of the arena…" she stammers.

"The arena?" Annie repeats vacantly.

The other girl's jaw slackens for a moment as she understands Annie's real question. "The arena. We're in the Hunger Games," she says steadily.

My mouth falls open, too. I had no _clue_ she was this messed up.

Annie moans and draws the knife back. "_Why?_" she wails. "Why did they put me here? _What_ did I do?"

The girl's expression softens, ever so slightly. "We didn't do anything. It was a lottery. They drew your name- by chance, unless you volunteered." She peers curiously at Annie. "Don't you remember anything?"

"My name is Annie Cresta, I'm from District Four," she whispers. Annie crumples to her knees and clamps her hands over her ears. "My name is Annie Cresta, I'm from District Four." She murmurs it again and again, like she has to remind herself.

Like she's a lunatic.

"Annie?" The girl from Eleven calls. "Annie Cresta?" She tries to break through her strange little mantra. "Can you even hear me?"

"And I'm supposed to kill you!" Annie bursts out. She scrambles to her feet and lurches back to her snare, grabbing the rope in one hand. The other pokes the long knife through the netting. "I'm supposed to kill you and I don't remember why!"

I can immediately see the lies forming behind the trapped girl's eyes. Anything she could possibly make up about how the Hunger Games operate, the things her unstable enemy might believe. But what reason can she give Annie, confused as she is, not to kill her, in the second week of the Games, when she has nothing to offer her? I come up blank and by her silence, I know she does, too.

_Just do it, _I want to tell Annie, because this display is torturous to watch, although the kill will certainly be worse. But she has to, she has to remove all the obstacles between here and home. Better now when she's crazy, when she can't hold herself responsible, when there's a chance she won't even remember doing it. Still, I watch her fingers curl around the knife handle and feel it, cold and sleek in my hand, like the end of my trident. And even though she doesn't shake, I do.

"Tell me why!" Annie insists. She's frantic now, breathing much too quickly. When the girl hesitates, she jams the knife up against her neck once again. "I said _tell me!_" Annie shrieks. The blade bites into the girl's skin and I see a trickle of red run down into her collar.

I hold my breath. I know I should be thinking that this girl's death will just be one step closer to home for Annie. But all I know is that another kill, another ghost, will take her one step further from ever, ever being my Annie again.

"I don't _know_!" the other girl snaps. She tries to sound fierce, but there are tears spilling down her cheeks. "I don't know why, Annie," she chokes out. "Nobody does."

There's a long silence, staring one another down, the girl from Eleven crying silently. Then Annie begins to tremble. She withdraws her knife and backs away slowly, eyes glassy. "I'm sorry…" she whispers, bending to wipe off the blade, smearing the girl's blood in the grass. "I'm sorry." Then her hands fly to her head again and she tries to drown out whatever it is that Annie hears now.

"Annie…" the girl calls. She swabs at the tears under her eyes, because she, at least, remembers the cameras. "Annie, are you okay?"

Her name is Annie Cresta, she's from District Four.

"It's alright, Annie. Take a deep breath." The older girl's voice takes on a soothing tone. "Everything's going to be fine."

Her name is Annie Cresta, she's from District Four.

"Can you cut me down, Annie?"

Annie lowers her arms, stumbles back over to the net and saws her little knife back and forth through a couple of the thick ropes. They snap, and the girl from Eleven crashes to the ground and sits up, breathing heavily.

"What is your name?" Annie asks. Her voice is ragged and tired.

"Willow," the girl answers, almost too softly to be heard.

"Willow," Annie repeats, slipping the knife backs into her belt. "Like the tree?"

"That's right." Willow stands slowly, cautiously, never taking her eyes off Annie. "Have you ever seen a willow tree, Annie?"

She hunches her shoulders and shakes her head. Moments before, Annie seemed to be a crazed killer. Now, she looks like a very young child.

"I'm sorry, Willow." She buries her face in her lap. And in that moment, I'm relieved. I know my Annie is back.

Willow bites her lip and bends down to pick up her blowgun. "No," she says under her breath, and there's genuine sorrow in her voice. "_I'm _sorry, Annie." She raises the pipe to her lips, eying Annie's bowed head.

My Annie is going to die.

I don't even scream at her this time. I don't want her to know or be afraid. Of course, she's oblivious anyway. She leans over and starts digging through her pack absently, unaware that the blowgun shifts with her every motion. "Are you hungry, Willow?"

Willow stops. She lets her small weapon go slack in her hand and sucks in a big breath, and for the first time I notice her ribs jutting out, rising and falling with the movement of her diaphragm. Annie turns and holds out the open backpack in front of her. "Apple?" she offers innocently.

"That'd be great." Willow hesitates, reaches down and picks out a large reddish-gold apple. "Thank you," she murmurs, almost inaudibly. Annie takes one, too, and the two girls sit and eat in silence.

I shake my head and try to make sense out of what just happened. Why does this girl, a total stranger, trust Annie, who is so obviously unstable, with her life? Why doesn't she just take the food and run? If it had been me in the arena- I can't help but shudder- I would have killed Annie. I would have killed her and plundered her supplies. That's how these Games are played.

I remember Mags telling me once that in the outlying districts, they don't always play by the rules, killing first, questioning later. No, those kids entertain the foreign ideas of respect and revenge and owing their opponents for favors. This girl, this Willow from Eleven, is in debt to Annie now. For freeing her. For feeding her.

I find myself in the doorway to Eleven's cubicle, watching her mentors watch their last hope the same diligent way I've been taking care of mine. It takes a moment before they sense my presence and turn around, prepared for confrontation.

Chaff and Seeder. Both middle-aged and world-weary. Seeder's probably in her fifties, and although Chaff is younger he doesn't seem it, probably from the alcohol. But he's always sober during the Games, unlike Haymitch. The dark suspicion in his eyes is surprising to me after spending so much time with the crude jokester of the parties and parades. He starts to growl, but Seeder grabs the remaining stub of his arm and speaks for him, quietly.

"Can we help you with something?" she asks calmly, politely, but there's a caution there, too.

"Does she need anything?" I ask. My voice is wooden, I don't even try to impress, not them. Not now. I am met with blank stares.

"Willow. Does she need anything? I have sponsor money, and it seems like-" I motion to their screens. "They get along all right." I hesitate when I realize how ironic my statement is, considering how they each just about killed the other. "I mean…"

I mean I understand them now. I owe Willow, for sparing Annie's life. And even though it wasn't by her doing, part of me is so grateful that I haven't just listened to her scream her last words. And that they weren't '_Annie, please'._

Chaff scowls at me. "You want to team up?"

I know they don't believe their ears, because since when has a Career district ever formed an alliance with Eleven this late in the Games, when the other tribute has little to nothing to contribute to the partnership? But I realize I do want to team up. Not for Annie's sake, necessarily, but for mine. I'm so tired of being alone.

"Tentatively?" I suggest. Seeder smiles then, and it's a gentle smile. Everything about her, her smile, her eyes, is gentle, too gentle for a victor, and it raises so many questions in my mind about the kind of people that win where they come from. Neither one of them says anything else, but they don't object when I return with my swivel chair in tow.

It's quiet in District Eleven's cubicle. Evening falls, and we watch the sun start to sink for eleventh time since the tributes entered the arena.

I find myself hoping Eleven is a lucky number.

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><p><strong>I know this is kind of an awkward chapter break, but I basically cut this chapter in half. Hope you enjoyed! I would love some feedback on this one! I'm always a little nervous when I introduce a new characterconcept. I'd love to hear your thoughts on Willow. I like her quite a bit. :)**


	21. Mercy

**Greetings once again! Here we have the conclusion of what was, in my confused mind, originally going to be in chapter 19, because Finnick and life and my imagination got in the way. I hope you enjoy this scene! I appreciate the reviews, and you know what, numbers don't matter anyway. :) And "Guest", I appreciate your effort to encourage me, but if all four of you were the same person, which I'm pretty sure you were, please only review once. Thank you!**

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><p><em>Day 11… 7:34 PM…<em>

Willow tries to make conversation once or twice. She asks Annie about her home in Four, about the ocean, which she's never seen. Annie tries to answer, but her voice is faint and her eyes are glazed and distant. Willow and I strain to hear her and try hard not to appear troubled by the difficulty she's having simply finishing a sentence. After an hour or so, Willow hushes Annie and listens to the stillness of the woods. She whistles her melody and waits. Silence. Repeat.

Finally, there's a soft echo. I realize we have another ally.

No sponsors come to see Chaff and Seeder. The only visitor we receive is Haymitch, who suddenly appears, leaning on the partition wall with the familiar bottle of booze in his hand. Chaff greets him with a nod and eyebrows raised in a question.

"He's on his way," Haymitch says under his breath. He motions to me then with a lopsided smile. "What's the loser doing here?" I bristle but don't say anything, because I suppose I owe Haymitch for earlier, too.

"Wants his girl to ally." Chaff shrugs noncommittally. "It's fine with me. You?"

"Well, I like the money. But it depends on what the kids want to do," Haymitch mutters and then glances my way. "You know that, right, sport?"

I nod, wondering just how keen on having another ally Haymitch's kid will be. He and Willow whistle back and forth a few more times, the tune the black-and-white bird sang out moments before the Career attack. I'm curious to know whether they are mimicking the birdsong or vice versa.

Eventually he arrives at Willow and Annie's camp and whistles again, just a few yards away, before stepping into view. I haven't paid much attention to Twelve's boy until now. He's on the tall side, fair-skinned, big-boned but smaller than Otto, much thinner from the harder life he's lived. Maybe under normal circumstances he would seem more intimidating, but now he's sweaty and pale and exhausted from running and bleeding all day.

"Willow…" he calls when he sees her. "I found the Careers' camp. They're up by the dam." He holds up a backpack and a canteen. "I got food, grabbed some water-"

Annie suddenly shrieks like a banshee. Intimidating or not, her eyes go wild with terror, a delayed reaction to the sight of a stranger. Willow shushes her, reaches for her arm and squeezes it until she calms down a bit. The boy from Twelve's frown steadily deepens.

"Shh, it's alright. It's only Adrian, he's my ally," Willow soothes.

"Willow?" This 'Adrian' bites his lip uncertainly. "Who's your new friend?"

Willow smiles, rather tensely, and gestures to her 'new friend', who is still rocking back and forth hysterically. "Adrian, this is Annie from District Four. Annie, this is Adrian, from Twelve. Do you know anything about Twelve?"

"How do you do?" Annie shakily asks the forest floor, apparently not hearing the question.

"Hey… Annie," Adrian says hesitantly.

Her hands fly to her ears and block his greeting. Adrian glares at Willow. "What's _wrong_ with her?" he whispers over Annie's bowed head. Willow sharply motions for him to be quiet. He winces when she grabs his bandaged arm and pulls him into the trees beyond the clearing.

"We'll be right back, Annie," she calls over her shoulder. Annie doesn't respond, just presses her forehead to her knees and tries to stop trembling.

"Explain. Now," Adrian hisses when they are out of hearing range. "Where did you find her?" Their conversation is low and fast and it sounds like they have a lot of experience arguing, even though when they met earlier in the arena they acted like total strangers.

"She found me. She had a net, Adrian-"

"A net?"

"She had knives. She let me go. Something's-" Willow motions to her head.

"Something's not right," Adrian echoes. "She sick or something?"

Willow sighs. "I don't know, okay? But she's got food-"

"So do I. I swear, you could hear her scream for a two-mile radius-"

"I think she's… she's unstable… but she's not dangerous…"

"Willow." Adrian's voice turns sharp, and she just sort of deflates, knowing just as well as I do what's coming. "We don't need an unstable ally. They don't let the crazies win."

"I know," she mutters. "We can leave her."

"You want to show mercy? Look at me." Adrian place both hands on Willow's drooping shoulders. "If we let her go, the Gamemakers have their fun with her. We don't have a choice."

"_No_ choice," she repeats hollowly. Then she glances up at him and her dark eyes flash angrily. "You do it," she snaps, tucking her blowgun into his hand.

"I will," he asserts, but she's already halfway back to the clearing.

Annie sits just where they left her, but she's started moved and she's setting out dried meat and more apples, stacking brush for a small fire. "Welcome back," she says with a tiny attempt at a smile, motioning to the food she's laid out. "Dinner's ready."

Willow and Adrian sink to the ground and they eat hungrily, sullenly. They don't look at each other. They don't talk.

And mostly importantly, they don't kill Annie.

I glance over at Haymitch, but he just shrugs at me. I realize that neither of these kids has a kill yet. And I don't imagine a sick girl like Annie would be an easy first.

But then again, I am calling a dangerous bluff. I weigh our non-existent other options and end up back here in these clearing, with these kids again.

After a while, Adrian details his trek upriver, discovering the plugged dam, his raid on the Careers' supplies, how he got discovered in spite of his quiet feet. The boy gleefully highlights "running away" as his best skill. The girls ask about his injured arm, but he blows it off as "just a scratch." And it may be, but it's a deep scratch. He's simply reaching for another strip of jerky when he has to stifle a cry. The wound has pulled open again and fresh blood soaks through the bandage in minutes.

"Let me see," Willow demands. Adrian hesitates, and the look she gives him could burn all the coal in his district. He slowly unwraps the arm and winces when she touches it, even though she's trying to be gentle.

"You need stitches," she declares at last.

He shakes his head. "No, I really-"

"You. Need. _Stitches_." Willow starts digging through their newly acquired backpack, but Annie already has her first aid kid out. Willow takes it and nods gratefully. "Thank you, Annie. You might not want to watch."

But Annie does watch, wide-eyed, as Willow lights the campfire to illuminate her work. I always pictured Annie as the type to shy away from blood and gore, but I suppose after Otto and Shannon this is nothing to her.

The Games change people, remember?

Willow rations a little water out of the canteen to clean Adrian's wound out. He tries not to flinch and fails miserably. When he reaches a hand toward the wound, though, Willow smacks it away. Annie continues to study them, fascinated, as Willow strings the catgut thread through the needle and ties off one end. Adrian sets his face like stone as she prepares to stick the needle through his flesh.

"You've got to sterilize that," Annie says absently.

Both of our new allies turn to stare at her.

"The needle," she murmurs, motioning to it. "You've got to put it through the fire."

"Right," Willow says quickly, grabbing a broken branch off the ground, igniting it in the campfire. She holds the needle out into the flickering yellow flame and raises an eyebrow at Annie until she nods and signals that it's been long enough. But when she turns back to Adrian, he's shaking his head.

"Haven't you ever done this before?" he asks warily.

"Sit still." Willow ignores him and reaches for his arm, but he jerks it away.

"I asked you a question," Adrian snaps.

Willow heaves a sigh. "First time for everything, huh? Give me your arm."

"I'm just going to do it myself," he insists.

"Oh, that's brilliant." She shakes her head fiercely. "You can't reach, you can't even see it, and you've never done this before, either!"

"I have," Annie says, so quietly I think I've imagined it. For the second time that night, Adrian and Willow both turn to stare at her in total disbelief.

"You've done this before?" Willow asks.

Annie nods with a faraway look, and I can't help doubting that the incident she's remembering really happened. "My brother," she says at last. "He got caught in a riptide. The rocks cut him."

I remember the oldest moptop on the interview saying something like that. I let out a strange yelping sound, and Chaff and Haymitch stare at me, but I don't care. Annie remembers me and she remembers her brother and she remembers the sea and that's more than I could have hoped for a few short hours ago.

Adrian and Willow have another silent conversation that assures me they never were strangers after all, and finally Willow nods and holds the needle and thread out to Annie. She takes it and the canteen and rinses out Adrian's wound once more before she pulls the edges of skin together and starts sewing. Willow rests a hand on her ally's shoulder reassuringly and watches Annie's work closely, but her fingers are quick and steady and experienced, just like when she tied knots with me in the penthouse living room an eternity ago.

Relief floods Willow's face. "You're very good at that, aren't you?"

Annie's too deeply concentrating to respond, but Adrian nods for her. "It's nice to see _somebody _knows what they're doing."

Willow's eyebrows shoot up, because how long ago was it that Adrian was insisting they kill her? He looks away quickly, because I get the feeling it's hard to stare down a girl like Willow.

"That is such a nasty cut. What got you?" she asks after a moment.

Adrian winces as Annie pushes the needle through his skin again. "It was Blade. I don't even know what he threw… some sort of boomerang that could have sliced right through me-"

Annie stops, her quick hands immediately frozen in place. Her intense concentration shatters in a heartbeat and her eyes go glassy all over again.

"Annie?" Adrian asks weakly. "Hey, Annie?" He bites his lip, fighting panic because the needle is still jammed halfway through his skin. "_Annie!_"

It's like a person regaining consciousness, the way her eyes roll around before returning to reality. She pulls the needle the rest of the way through, but she's shaking too hard to make any more progress. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, barely above a whisper. "I sometimes- I have trouble- I can't … focus…" She drops the needle and thread and runs anxious hands through her hair. They pause over her ears and she seems to be struggling to stay in the arena instead of blocking everything out again.

"It's alright, Annie. I want you to lie down," Willow says gently, plucking up the needle, rinsing it, cleansing it in the fire again. She finishes the job, and although she stitches more slowly and less confidently than Annie, Adrian doesn't dare complain again. Annie scoots away and leans back against a tree trunk, still trembling visibly, cradling her head in her hands.

"What do you think happened to her?" Adrian whispers.

Willow ties off the last knot and begins to rewrap his arm in clean bandages. "I honestly don't know. Memory loss-"

"Did you see her eyes?"

She snorts. "Hard to miss. Annie, baby, did you hit your head on something?" she calls, tucking some extra pain pills into Adrian's hand.

"I don't think so" is her weak reply.

"She's got to have a concussion," Adrian mutters.

"We'll see." Willow shuffles on her knees across the clearing to where Annie is slumped, dragging the first aid kit behind her. "Sweetheart, can I take a look at you?"

Annie doesn't agree but doesn't try to stop her. So the older girl pulls her head into her lap and runs a gentle hand through her hair, pausing occasionally, feeling for bumps or lumps or anything out of the ordinary. "Seems alright." She reaches for the emergency flashlight lying beside Annie and flicks it on. "Let me see those pretty eyes."

Annie shrieks like she's being burned when Willow shines the beam into her eyes. Willow immediately turns off the light, but it's too late, Annie's hysterical and it takes a lot of quiet coaxing to calm her down again. Her breathing eventually returns to a normal pace, and Willow makes her lie down in her sleeping bag and strokes her hair until she is asleep.

"Well?" Adrian asks.

"Concussion, definitely," she says, although it obviously isn't. But this is a much better explanation for the audience than 'emotional instability'.

I owe Willow again.

There's a lull now, and I ask my fellow mentors to tell me about their tributes. They're both eighteen and poor, the kind of kids that are generally reaped from the outer districts, because they've entered their names more times in exchange for the extra food, the tesserae. Adrian might not have had to, if his father and his older brother had survived the mine accident, but he's the man of the family now. And Willow, there's no telling how many she's lost. She comes from the group home for the orphans, and even though she was old enough to leave, she didn't. The house director didn't care, not really, so back home Willow was everybody's mother and nobody's daughter. I don't think she minded much, because, as Seeder tells me, "she needs to be needed."

I learn that the alliance between Eleven and Twelve was planned from the beginning, in training, but they had agreed to split up and cover more ground, keeping tabs on the other tributes, reporting to each other occasionally. They pretended to be enemies, for the cameras. The other tributes from their districts would have been involved, too, if they hadn't died in the bloodbath. I learn that the boy from Eleven was named Bracken and the girl from Twelve was Leticia. And even though I've always tried hard to forget names, my victims and my tributes and the girls, I want to remember these. Somebody should.

Then of course they have to bring up the one subject I've been avoiding.

"So you and the crazy girl…" Chaff drawls slowly. "You _really _messed around with your tribute? That's low, even for you, Odair." His tone is equal parts disgust and amusement.

Coming from another mentor instead of the Capitol crowd, this raises my hackles beyond what I can bear. And because the red light on the dashboard is still off, I mutter one word. "Publicity." I don't dare look at Haymitch.

"Ahhhh." Chaff nods understandingly, because won't we all say anything to get ahead? "That was just what I heard, anyway."

"I heard you were sick last night," Seeder adds sympathetically, but I don't miss the too-wise eyebrow lift at me. "Or was that _publicity_, too?"

I grace her with a slightly strained smile but no answer. Her hand catches my arm and squeezes it, and that's gentle, too. I suddenly remember from somewhere that I'm pretty sure she has children, so I accept her gesture, wishing for Mags.

"I'll watch," Adrian volunteers when darkness has fully descended and the campfire must be put out. "It'll be a while before the meds kick in and I won't be able to sleep before then." Everything feels like it's back to the way it was before, with Otto. The alliance, patching one another up, taking shifts in the night. But it's not, and these people have even less obligation to Annie than Otto ever did. But here they are, and Willow is stroking Annie's hair again as she tries to settle herself down for the night, and Adrian is watching over them both because that's his job now.

Willow follows Annie into restless sleep and he still just sits there, shifting his weight occasionally, studying his teammates. He pulls the blowgun out of his pocket and turns it in his hands, heaves an irritated sigh, glances back at Annie again. Glances at the neat row of stitches in his arm. He grinds his teeth and that little pipe goes flying across the clearing. Because he can't.

Or he won't.

All the things I should be feeling, relief and happiness and worry and insanely-in-love, mix together into a restless sort of exhaustion. I get up and wander to the coffee maker to pour myself another mug of mud that I never intend to drink, and a dozen pairs of eyes follow me across the room. Even the Avoxes, the ones who could suffer for it, stare now. I'm used to being gawked at but not by my fellow mentors, because they are the only ones that can appreciate that I didn't choose my fate as Panem's heartthrob. They know that I'm only acting. But that's the reason they're so curious now. Because of this 'act' with Annie.

"Finally got yourself a little team, Romeo?" Brutus asks me. The shadows under his eyes indicate he isn't handling the stress of the Games so well, either. I just nod and wonder if he's jealous that my girl is still alive. I wonder whether he felt any sorrow at Shannon's death, or if he's holding it personally against me or Annie.

Brutus leans in confidentially, and even though I lean _out _he whispers, "If the boy wasn't a weakling, she'd be dead by now."

I clench my jaw and return to Eleven's cubicle. I watch the boy from Twelve watch her, silent and resigned to his decision, and _weak _is the last thing I would ever call him.

Chaff and Seeder scold Haymitch for serving himself yet another glass of white liquor, but he quickly turns the conversation aside to me, asking what Brutus wanted. "Oh, you know," I say bitterly. "Everyone has some snide remark to make about my strategy. Again."

Oops. I realize I left Haymitch's window wide open. He smirks and I know it's coming. "Star-crossed lovers," he slurs, tipping his flask back again.

I snatch his tumbler and drop it into the nearest trashcan, liquor and all, ignoring his barely-concealed rage. Luckily for me, Eleven's mentors are both having a good laugh. "So good to have you on the team, Haymitch," I say more confidently, shoving my own steaming mug into his unsteady hands. "Meet your soul mate."

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><p><strong>So there you have it! Another new character-chapter so it's always good to have some feedback. Adrian's a lot of fun to write for, hope you enjoyed him as much as I did! Thanks for reading! There will be more action soon, promise! :D<strong>


	22. Choosing

**Here is a nice long chapter for you! The beginning of the end of the Games. Almost cried...**

**Hit 200 pages in Microsoft Word last night! :D This is officially the LONGEST thing I have ever written... Let's celebrate by reaching 200 REVIEWS! Just kiddin'. :) Numbers are meaningless... MEANINGLESS...  
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><p><em>Day 12… 4:46 AM<em>

In case you're wondering, Castor never healed. Not fast enough, anyway.

Chaff and I are the ones on watch when Blade creeps over and drives the edge of his boomerang into his ally's heart. Castor gives a sharp cry and then he's still, and really, it's probably the quickest death he could have hoped for. He would have been Otto's fifth kill, if Blade hadn't taken matters into his own hands. My screen would have lit up with celebratory colors instead of Brutus', and maybe I would be the one having the screaming fight with Gloss while the women, Cashmere, Johanna, and Enobaria, looked on in exasperation.

Matilda hears and she's wide awake, shrieking, crawling over to the body as Blade wipes his weapon off in the grass. "What did you _do?_" she hisses, face pale with horror. She's trying to stop the bleeding, but of course, it's pointless. "You _traitor!_"

"I did him a favor. It was coming, anyway."

And maybe he's right, but she's on her feet, cursing at him, and she slaps his cheek hard. He raises his boomerang and she raises her axe and they study each other, breathing loudly.

"I think it's time we parted ways," Blade says at last. "Just walk away, Seven." He's serious. He used number and not name.

"Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?" Matilda mocks him. "You can _stab _me in the back then, too?"

"You don't want to do this," he cautions.

She spits at him.

Both weapons come up and go flying, but at that moment, the ground shudders and trembles and in the confusion, they both miss terribly. Matilda doesn't wait for the shaking to stop. She pries Blade's boomerang out of the tree trunk behind her and takes off through the woods, hacking away at the branches with it. She heads south, toward Annie and Willow and Adrian, still cursing under her breath and swiping the tears leaking down her cheeks. Her reaction strikes me as ironic, because Annie never cried for Otto.

_Boom._

Final five tributes now.

Castor's cannon echoes through the clearing where our new little alliance is camped, and Annie jerks bolt upright out of sleep in full-blown panic. Her scream is long and wild and bone-chilling and it's _never-ending_. She takes a choking, gasping breath once and continues until it feels like I've always been listening to her scream.

Adrian sits up, groggy and confused. Willow's already awake on watch and hurries to Annie's side, grasping her arm, running hands through her hair. "Shhh! Annie, hush." The shrieking stops but she continues to wail, wrapping her arms around her middle, rocking herself slowly. There are tears streaming down her cheeks that Willow brushes away with a thumb. They come too fast for her to keep up with, though.

"Annie, what's wrong?" Willow's barely hiding the desperation in her voice. "Tell me. Tell me."

"He's _dead!_" Annie wails. "He's dead... he's dead…" She doubles over and covers her face with her hands, muffling the next wave of sobs to shake her body. Each one seems to have the power to rip her in half, and they're only coming on stronger. I've never seen her cry like this. I've never seen anyone cry like this, so recklessly, like they don't care if their heart breaks from it.

"Who's dead?" Willow asks, hesitantly, because this could only send her further over the edge. Annie doesn't answer. Can't, she's sobbing too hard.

Otto's dead. Of course, I spoke of irony too soon.

"Annie, Adrian's right here."

"I'm right here," Adrian calls, eyes flickering with concern. He's motioning for Willow to shut her up, because she's too loud and she's going to blow their cover. But there's little she can do besides cradle her head and murmur a lot of quiet, useless things. They both know by now she's not worried about Adrian.

"Whose cannon?" he asks quietly. "And how does she know?"

"I don't know." Willow shakes her head. "No idea. Did she…" She drops her voice to a whisper. "Did she have an ally?"

Adrian bites his lip thoughtfully. "The shark teeth boy?" he offers bluntly.

Annie moans and clamps the sides of her head like a vise, and Willow gives Adrian a _look,_ like she wants to slap his face. _I _want to slap his face, the idiot, for talking like she can't hear, or she's too insane to understand his words. This outburst is proof that reality is catching up with her. And reality hurts. And I'm finding that her grief is much more painful than my own.

"Is that it, Annie?" Willow asks. "Is that him?"

Annie hiccups and takes a shuddery breath, sticking her feet out in front of her. "These are his shoes," she says, grasping the toes of her hiking boots in both hands.

"Whose shoes?" Adrian prods.

"I lost mine." Annie rocks herself on the heels of the boots. "I lost mine." And even though they're identical to the shoes all the other tributes were issued for the arena, Willow inspects them thoroughly, just to gratify her.

"Ah, yes," she says, nodding wisely. "I see now, they're a little big on you."

It's impossible to tell what's going to set Annie off. Those few simple words, and her face crumples and she's crying again. She sobs, wails until the sun comes up. Willow holds her and whispers to her until she has exhausted herself. She and Adrian exchange a look over Annie's head, and it's a helpless, half shoulder-shrug. They're attached now, and what can they do about it?

The short answer is nothing. There's nothing they can do about it.

I find myself wishing I was the one in there with her and I could hold her, because I am just so powerless here in the Mansion. I can send her physical stuff, but I can't comfort her. I can't send myself in to protect her. Maybe it was easier for Otto, to be with her, to have a life to give for her. I'm somehow even jealous of him.

You know it's going to be one of those days when you wake up _wishing_ you were in an arena, envying a dead boy.

* * *

><p>I'm grateful for company, but I don't talk to my fellow mentors much. Haymitch and Chaff still joke and mess around but they're much tamer here than in their public appearances. They leave me alone for the most part when they figure out I'm not in any mood for laughter. But Haymitch still calls me 'the loser' and winks at me when he catches me staring at Annie- which is constantly, because that's my job- and he has no idea how horribly <em>un<em>-funny I find the whole situation.

Seeder proves to be the one who has my back. She scolds Haymitch sharply for offering me a glass of white liquor to "relax" me, because in her mind, at least, I'm not old enough to drink. She also confiscates my fourth cup of coffee when she notices the way I'm cradling my aching stomach. It's obvious that when she looks at me, she doesn't see Panem's gorgeous celebrity. She sees one of the young faces she left behind at home. It's funny how much I don't mind, because the short childhood I had here ended the day I turned sixteen. I don't know if there's anyone left who thinks of me as a kid except for Mags.

"How are you holding up?" It's what Haymitch asks me after several hours of my silence at his wisecracks. It's really the best question to ask a mentor. We can't say "how are you doing?" because we aren't really getting to _do _anything. The best we can manage is to hold up. I smile and nod and give him an "okay" sign, but the truth is, I'm not. I'm not holding up at all.

Seeder sees the way I'm watching Annie with a bitten lip and lays a hand on my shoulder. "It's hard to watch, but she's getting relief," she tells me softly. "She's letting it out. Tears are healthy, you know."

I think she says that last bit for my benefit, but it doesn't matter, I'm still all dried up from my interview the other day. Pallindra retrieves me for another meeting with sponsors, which I dutifully perform even though we don't really need more money. Afterwards, she tells me how disappointed she was in my performance, which had been _so riveting_ just two nights ago, and for _goodness' sake, _why can't I cry again? I don't have an answer. I'm just numb and tired and quickly losing control of my ability to act.

When I return, Seeder presses a plate of breakfast biscuits and gravy into my hands, but I'm already full, full of Annie's screams and visions of Otto's last moments. I choke down a few bites, to be polite, to keep myself running, before my stomach lurches dangerously. The slamming starts in my chest and I end up slumped in my chair, Haymitch's cold liquor bottle pressed to my forehead. My throat squeezes together the way it did watching Otto die, and so of course that's what I see again, only it's Annie now, Annie's head, and I'm breathing so hard and so fast but not actually getting any air.

Through the blood pounding in my ears, I hear someone finally put a name to my distress- _panic attack_- and Chaff pushes my head between my knees. I feel Seeder rubbing my back and I should resent it, being treated like a child, but it's pointless. I need help. "Breathe, Finnick," she instructs as I continue to hyperventilate. "In through your nose."

"Don't let her die," wheezes a voice that sounds nothing like mine. "_Please_. Don't let her die." I beg even though she is no more in control than I am, except for the control over her emotions that I seem to have lost a long time ago.

"_In_ through your _nose_," she repeats, slowly, in a whisper. "Out through your mouth."

Now the great Finnick Odair can't even breathe without assistance. I'm struck by how little difference there is between her comforting me and Willow holding a hysterical Annie in the arena. There isn't as fine a line between sane and crazy as I imagined.

Someone finds me a paper bag, and it takes a good three minutes of inhaling and exhaling into it with Seeder's guidance before I feel steady again. I finally open my eyes and I'm met by three very concerned pairs studying me. Four, if you count Johanna's icy gaze from across the room. I feel extremely stupid and I try to think of some way to incorporate this into my act, but honestly, if I was going to pretend to be broken-hearted, tears would be the logical choice. Maybe rage. I would _never _think to fake a panic attack. It'd be like feigning a wound by actually stabbing yourself.

They all know better than to ask questions, at least. And even Haymitch doesn't tease me after that.

Willow and Adrian go to work packing up camp, double-checking their supplies and Annie's, covering the remains of the previous night's campfire.

"How's your arm?" Willow asks. She keeps her voice low because Annie is still conked out on the other side of the clearing.

He shrugs and continues sweeping dirt over the campfire ashes. "It hurts. It's fine, though."

"You're getting dust in it, bright one," Willow says with a shake of her head. She catches his arm and inspects the stitches. "What do we do about that?"

Adrian snorts. "Ask the nursemaid when she wakes up."

Annie doesn't stir until the middle of the afternoon. She sits up with a groan and grabs her head, but it's not the usual cover-her-ears-and-shut-out-the-world. It's more like me suffering from my first and only hangover.

"Look who's up!" It's the first time I ever see Willow smile, and she's prettier that way. "How are you feeling?"

"What _happened_?" Annie murmurs. Her green eyes are puffy and bloodshot but somehow clearer than during the episode this morning.

"Headache? You got pretty upset about something this morning…"

She rubs her temples, grits her teeth. "I must have!"

Willow reaches for the first aid kid. "We've got pills but I'm saving them for Adrian."

"I'm fine, she can have them," he insists, waving her off.

"Oh, shut up." Willow never sees Adrian salute her behind her back, but Annie does and she starts giggling. It's a sort of bubbling noise that brings the ocean to mind even more than her waves of sobs did. Probably because the ocean is my favorite sound.

"By the way, our genius ally got all kinds of nastiness in his cut. Can we wash it?" Willow asks, oblivious to the teasing going on around her.

"There are wipes in the first aid kid. You can use those," Annie says, growing a bit more serious. "But you do _not _want to get that wet."

They both nod, and Willow goes to clean out his cut with the wipes. Annie sits beside them and traces patterns in the dirt with a finger. Her eyes widen as pebbles begin to rattle against each other.

"Guys…"

Then the ground is lurching and Willow almost smacks her head on the tree she's leaning on. She lunges for the trunk and wraps her arms around it, and Adrian grabs on, too. Annie curls into a ball and covers her head. The arena trembles for a good thirty seconds before the dust settles again, leaving three panting, sweaty, terrified kids.

Adrian is the first to speak. "Dirty again," he says shakily, examining the stitches on his arm.

Annie peeks out from under her arms after a moment and smiles dizzily. "I'm alive," she says, as if trying to reassure herself.

"Yes, we're all alive." Willow doesn't smile back. She's still shivering with adrenaline.

"Earthquake…" Seeder says it almost like a question. An earthquake, obviously, but why? It wasn't particularly destructive. Blade and Matilda are equally unharmed. I drop my head into my hands and rack my brain. Chaff and Haymitch eye me like they're afraid I'm going to panic again and curl up into the fetal position. But now that there's actual physical danger, I'm calm. The tortured waiting kills me. Danger, I can deal with. I can reason out a solution to this puzzle.

"The volcano," I say at last, jerking my head up. "This is the finale!"

We all exchange a look, and Haymitch immediately blanches. This time, when he goes to take another swig of white liquor, no one tries to stop him. We all remember his arena, and why we hate volcanoes.

They get to work, trying to clean up camp, and Annie wipes down Adrian's cut again. It's Willow who surprises me, curling up in a corner of the clearing, shaking long after the arena is still again. Adrian sees. He grabs a blanket from their supplies and goes to wrap it around her shoulders, but she jerks away instinctively from the presence behind her.

"Oh. Thank you," she turns and says a bit sheepishly, taking the thin covering and pulling it tightly around her. Adrian continues to stare at her, a half-amused smile twisting his lips, though she refuses to meet his eye.

"_What?_" she finally snaps.

"Nothing." The crooked smile widens. "You just _really _don't want to die, do you?"

"I'm not looking forward to it, if that's what you mean." She stretches one arm out with an end of the blanket. Annie crawls over and cocoons herself in it next to her. "No, I'm not suicidal. Why?" Willow asks.

He shakes his head slowly. "I remember your interview, with Caesar. You said you didn't care what happened to you. You said you didn't have anybody. I just… I didn't believe you."

She shrugs, dropping a bit of the ferocity. "Yeah, well, we're all liars around here."

Adrian considers that for a moment. "Who?" he asks, more softly.

A faraway look creeps into her dark brown eyes, a sigh pushes past her lips. Willow pulls Annie more tightly to herself and speaks after a long silence. "There's a boy out there I wouldn't mind seeing again."

Her mouth twists with the tragic irony of it all. Adrian doesn't speak.

"Me, too," Annie puts in quietly.

It's one of those moments when there's nothing to say, like when your little sister announces she's married the dog next door. Adrian and Willow both give her a look that says, "Oh, _really,_ Annie?" but they don't burst her bubble.

And if Haymitch wasn't so lost in his liquor and his ghosts, I would avoid his gaze again.

* * *

><p>I distract myself from the obvious and useless question burning in my mind, studying the live feed, watching for any signs of the impending eruption. But no, I don't get to see the volcano, I'm bombarded with clips of Blade hacking through the forest aimlessly, cursing Castor and Matilda and Annie and probably himself. I am not impressed with his macho temper. I am trying to keep from losing my mind.<p>

_Volcano._ _Earthquake. Fault line. Fissure. _Beetee's words from a week ago swim in my head and I wish he hadn't left yet, because if anyone could make sense of this, it was that nutcase. I wander over to Three's cubicle and find a whole stack of old-fashioned, hand-written notes and diagrams littering the dashboard. I pick up a handful and start pawing through it. Johanna has obviously gotten the same idea.

"Cheater." She tosses her ponytail as she breezes by me, dropping into Beetee's chair, powering his screens on. It's scary how silently that girl can approach you when she feels so inclined. My brow creases as I watch her.

"And you're not?"

"I'm coming to terms with it," she says dryly. The monitor in front of her flickers to life with a bright log-in screen. She taps a few random keys for a password and starts to enter it.

"Quit it! Beetee's rigged that, you know." I may be an expert on our equipment here, but I'm no hack. Beetee busted his way into the system years ago, and you can bet we're all jealous. "An alarm will go off."

"Like I care. Like anybody cares if we play by our own rules."

I shake my head and return to my mission, leaving her to hers. Beetee has drawn up pages and pages of charts and graphs of the seismographic activity in the arena. He has created a table of the times of the episodes, starting from Day One in the arena and predicting through… today.

Now.

Or more precisely, in about two minutes.

I slam the notebook down on his dashboard. "Chaff! Seeder!" I call, hurrying back to their cubicle. "There's going to be another-"

Really, Beetee's accuracy is astounding. He was off by only a couple of minutes.

Seeder cries out then. The ground is already quivering in the arena, the cameras jitter up and down, and this time, it's _massive. _Branches, some of them huge, tear off and land in the clearing beside our tributes, and Willow pulls the blanket over all their heads for a bit of protection. Somewhere in the woods behind them, a large tree topples. Blade hits the ground and Matilda hits her head hard, hard enough that I see blood dripping down her temple. We hold our breaths and wait for the explosion.

There's nothing. Nothing but a deep cracking sound, and then it's over just as quickly as it began.

Willow peeks out from under the blanket, gives Annie's tense shoulders a squeeze. She glances over at Adrian, and they both start laughing nervously. "Dirty again?" she asks playfully, motioning to the stitches on his arm.

He never gets the chance to answer. Because there's a sound through the trees, a low gurgle that grows to a roar within seconds. And there's a massive wall of water suspended over our tributes.

"_Run!_" Adrian screams, and they make it maybe ten yards before the wave overtakes them, crashing down over them, and we can't see anything.

I don't understand.

"The dam!" Brutus screams from his station, and I wait for the rest of his curse before I remember the plug Matilda built into the ancient stone wall. The stream water that drained out of the arena, only to be re-circulated, probably replaced in the reservoir. Now the entire arena is flooding, and the cameras pick up only the murky water, black in the twilight, thrashing, bubbling where the tributes are flailing around.

The climax. The finale. They're finally choosing losers.

And all my drowning mind registers is _what about the volcano?_

"_Odair!_" Haymitch screams like it's not the first time he's had to say my name. He's running to his own station, checking his screens. "Can she swim? Can she swim, Odair?"

I resurface then. "Yes, of course!" I shout back, clutching the back of Chaff's chair for support. Then I see the pallor of Eleven's mentors. I hear Brutus cursing again, more fiercely, and I realize that was not an _of course _question.

She can. She can swim. She can survive this.

No camera feed. The precious seconds tick by into silent minutes. No one speaks, no one breathes, because for a moment we're all the same, every one of us is losing.

_Boom._

Brutus's fist tears through a partition into Beetee's station, and I can only assume-

_Boom._

As I watch, the screen in front of me dissolves into buzzing, empty static.

My brain isn't far behind.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP Willow. :'(<strong>


	23. Hang On

**This is a pretty fast update for me. I'm super wrapped up in writing this right now, along with the fact that I don't have a life this week. That's helping. :)****  
>But I know the question you're all asking: Can I POSSIBLY drag the Games out any longer? And the answer is a resounding... YESSSSS! :D<br>**

**Okay, more seriously, thanks for being patient, this story has some pacing issues for which I apologize. But Johanna's issues are resolved here, well, sort of, and I PROMISE, Annie will be out of the arena by next chapter. :) So hang on! (Hahaha, chapter title!)  
><strong>

**And guess what? If we get at least TWO reviews here, we'll hit two hundred, and cherrypieblues must bake a cake. Or... a cherry pie. It's non-optional. :D**

* * *

><p><em>Day 12… 6:45 PM…<em>

"_Get up, _you idiot!"

Haymitch's gruff, unpleasant voice calls me out of someplace dark. It's strange, I don't remember dropping to my knees in front of the dashboard, raking my fingers across the controls. I wonder if I had my hands clamped over my ears like Annie-

_Annie._

"She's alive, Finnick. Stand up." My mind starts to come back into focus, and I allow Haymitch to jerk me to my feet again. I see the static-screen flickering in front of me, signifying that the tribute from this district is dead.

I realize that I'm not in my own cubicle. I'm in Eleven's.

Which means-

"_Willow!_" Annie's voice comes out in a desperate shriek. I don't have to see her eyes to imagine the new cracks.

Haymitch hollers to me because his screen has picture again. It's an aerial shot, which means there are hovercrafts overhead, within yards of Annie. They could easily save her. They could save all of them, really, but they won't. They won't.

I hurry over and get a view of Adrian, clutching a tree trunk, drenched, pushing sopping wet hair out of his eyes. "Annie!" he yells, just as I see her dive under the swirling blackness around them. He grabs a branch just over his head that was eight feet high moments before, and reaches out into the current. Annie resurfaces, fills her gasping lungs with air, and prepares to dive again.

"Stop, Annie! Don't…Annie, stay up here!" Adrian grabs her arm and struggles to retrain her. She thrashes wildly, and in the water, she's stronger than I've ever seen her.

"_Willow…_"

"I know. I know. She's gone." Adrian chokes, maybe on flood water, maybe on tears, and Annie screams again. With a wail, she goes limp in the water. Adrian wraps his good arm around her and pulls her back to the tree trunk. That's when I see he's bleeding again from his injured arm. Badly.

What had Annie said? _You don't want to get that wet…_

"Look at me!" Adrian pushes dripping hair out of Annie's eyes, turns her head so she doesn't see the hovercraft claw plunging into the water a few yards away. Even through her tears, I know she's still with us, just barely. She holds onto him, holds onto his words. "We're just going to hang onto the tree," Adrian whispers. "We're going to hang on as long as we can, okay?"

"Okay," she echoes, voice tiny. I don't know if he realizes just how much she's struggling to hang onto anything right now.

I glance around the Mentor's Mansion and take inventory of the damage this flood has caused. Johanna has her eyes glued to Matilda's screen. The girl managed to scale a tree half a mile or so from Adrian and Annie and she's huddled against the trunk, silently applying pressure to the cut on her head.

_Blade is dead._ Brutus has stormed out, leaving Enobaria to shut off the monitors, patch the hole that he punched in the thin partition.

_Willow is dead. _ Chaff is also turning off screens, shoving the useless pencils and rubber bands back into drawers. Seeder makes her way over to me. There's a pained smile, parting words written on her face, and my first thought isn't of poor Willow and how they must be grieving for her. My first, selfish thought is _they're going to leave me. _I don't know if I can take it.

Chaff shakes my hand, and Seeder rises on tiptoe to kiss my cheek. She pulls away and I see the tears in her eyes. I want to ask her to stay, but how could I do that to her? If she could stay, I know she would. But I'm pretty sure Seeder is everybody's mother, too, and I can't keep her forever. So I just focus on breathing- in through my nose, out through my mouth.

She squeezes my hand and then lets go, turning to Haymitch, who doesn't look up from his screen. "Take care of him," she murmurs in a way that makes me think that I wasn't supposed to hear. He nods and knocks back another half a bottle. Haymitch can't even take care of himself.

Three remaining. Three tributes, three mentors.

* * *

><p>There's a black spot in my memory just after the dam broke. I have no idea what I said or did, but it must have been something like a desperate man in love, because Pallindra arrives with more sponsor's checks in her arms. She doesn't try to make me give another speech, even she's figured out that I don't have anything left for the audience. Finding a wasted Haymitch pretty poor company, I return to my own cubicle and stash the new checks. I look through the catalogue, but anything useful, relating to flotation or boating or anything of the kind, is gray and washed-out. <em>Unavailable. <em>Because we're choosing losers now. I think of the hovercrafts filming just over Annie's head, just out of her reach, and I leave a fist-sized hole in the other side of Beetee's partition as well.

Her teeth are chattering hard now, and I didn't realize the water was that cold, but it's a logical choice, of course, for choosing losers. Adrian's shivering, too, and tries to coax Annie to climb up the tree with him, but no, the water is familiar to her. The branches are too small and slick to get a good hold on, and the strain of it tears his wound open wider. It's gaping. Adrian cries out and ends up falling back into the flood, grabbing hold of the trunk beside Annie again. The water swirls purple with his blood.

Annie swallows hard at the sight. "We're going to die."

"No." He tears off his shirt, letting the frigid water wash over his bare chest, and ties the fabric around his tattered arm. It does little to stop the flow. "We're going to hang on."

* * *

><p>The first time Adrian passes out, it's only for a few seconds. Annie keeps a hold of him. He comes back around and clings to her, but he's so weak and so cold, and his eyes are full of apologies for breaking promises he couldn't keep, promises he never even made to her.<p>

She holds him up the second time, too.

The third time Adrian loses consciousness, he slips away from her. He slips under. Annie dives for him and pulls him up again, but she's so much smaller, he almost drags her down instead. She has a hold of him now, but he's still out.

She tries mouth-to-mouth, to start his breathing again. It's the first time her lips have ever met a boy's, but he doesn't feel it.

_Boom._

Annie releases him, lets him slip back under the rolling black water. She doesn't cry. She's gone. Long gone. Nobody's home in her terrified eyes.

I glance over at Haymitch. He slams the bottle down on his dashboard, drawing a grimy hand across his mouth. Those bloodshot eyes never leave the screen as he raises the first three fingers of his left hand to his lips. He holds them out in a salute when the hovercraft descends for Adrian's body. I don't know what the gesture means, but it breaks off another piece of my heart.

I never get the opportunity to ask. Haymitch staggers out of the room without saying good-bye, and there's a good chance I won't see him until next year.

Next year. I'm doing this again next year. I grab my head in both hands. Even if Annie wins, I'm doing this next year. No, Annie will never, never mentor. Not if I can help it.

* * *

><p>If I made a list of the people I wanted to see right now, Johanna Mason would be at the bottom, dead-last. And yet somehow, here she is, standing in my cubicle. As usual, I didn't hear her enter until she was breathing in my ear. I can feel the heat from the fire in her eyes without even turning.<p>

"What do you want, Mason?" I hiss irritably. I am much too raw to talk to her at the moment, especially because Johanna has very little patience for those things the rest of us call 'feelings'. No, the two of us are going to keep up the tough act for as long as we can, even though she already knows better. She's seen me cry and wheeze into a paper bag already this trip.

"I believe it," she whispers, not looking at me. She's watching Annie shiver on my screen, probably trying to determine how far she is from Matilda. Probably trying to cheat again. But I'm not concerned about it. This battle now, it isn't between me and Johanna. It's not even between Annie and Matilda. No, this is a fight between the woods and sea to determine which one will sustain a tribute the longest.

So all I say is, "You believe what_?_"

"This lie you're telling everybody," she says with a smirk. "I believe it's true." She asserts herself as if, just because she believes whatever it is she believes, it can't be anything but absolutely certain.

I decide to feign innocence. "Then it's not much of a lie, is it?"

"But you want people to _think _it's a lie."

"Obviously, I want people to think it's true!" I snap, annoyed and more than a little confused.

"You want the sponsors to believe it's true. But not us. You want us to think it's a lie. So it's a true lie, then?" Johanna raises an eyebrow at me.

"I don't have to talk to you about this." I start to rise from my swivel chair, but she pushes me back down, eyes glinting like the edge of her axe.

"You love her," she hisses. Each word is a brick dropped on my chest. "I have _no clue_ why. But I am watching you die a slow and painful death, _right here, _in this chair." Johanna's eyes narrow in disbelief. "And you _want _her to win?"

My stomach drops out. I don't like where this conversation is going. At all. I push her off me and jump to my feet, murmuring, "I gotta go. Now." I hear her calling after me, but I disappear into the men's room before she can chase me down.

I'm alone in here except for the Avox slave taking care of his business in the corner. I lean against the sink, splash some water on my face. I look up into the mirror and see, for the first time, exactly how pale I am, finger the huge bags forming under my eyes. And I wonder, not for the first time, how long it will be before my stylist won't be able to cover them with make-up anymore. I have to laugh a little, thinking that if Annie was here, she wouldn't hesitate to tell me how terrible I look.

Yes, the stress of the Games will ruin my face someday, and then I can go home. And if Annie's there, too, I don't think she'd mind my baggy eyes.

What the heck am I _thinking_?

I splash a little more ice-cold water on my face, hoping that it will dissolve some of the daydreams. The bathroom door swings open, and it's Johanna. Of course, I can't hide from her anywhere. "You know what I think is funny?" she demands loudly before her eyes sweep the room and find the Avox man staring at her, absolutely bewildered. "Hey. How's it going, Speechless?" she asks, glaring pointedly at him.

He hurries to wash his hands, avoiding her gaze, more than a little terrified. Johanna waits for the door to click closed behind him before she whirls around and jabs a finger into my chest.

"I think it's kind of funny that _you've_ been begging to talk to _me _for this entire trip, and now that I've got something to say, you're chickening out." I start to open my mouth in protest, but she shoves me backwards. "Let me be the first to point out you are _not _thinking clearly. _Somebody-"_ Here, she turns and shoves a potted plant in front of the door, blocking a small mounted security camera. "-needs to _knock _a little sense into you!"

As I watch, Johanna leans over and turns on the entire row of faucets, one by one, so the sound of running water overpowers even her loud whispers. It occurs to me, too late, why she's taking these measures for extra privacy.

Johanna Mason is going to kill me, right here in the men's restroom, and no one will be the wiser.

"You love her," she says again, turning on me. "Do you _really _want her to win?"

My blood boils at that same question. That same obvious and yet haunting question. "What are you talking about? Of course I do!"

"A victor. A crazy victor, no less. She ends up like us. Is that what you want for Annie?" She searches my face. "Tell me, Finnick, are you happy… as a victor?"

Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. The nerve of her. "I don't believe you, Mason!" I snarl. My hands clench into fists involuntarily at my side. "Asking me to throw the Games?"

Suddenly we're talking, no, screaming, over each other. "I'm not asking you to-"

"You want me to _kill_ her? My own tribute? Is that what you-"

"That's not what I said! Listen, I don't care who wins-"

"You _expect me to believe_-"

"If you'd just give me a second-"

"Just so your little girl has a shot-"

"She _can't swim, Finnick!_"

My teeth come down on my tongue, cutting me off mid-rage. "What did you say?"

"Matilda can't swim," Johanna repeats quietly.

I hesitate, perplexed. Why would she tell me this? Down to the last two, why would she ever admit to me her disadvantage?

"I don't care who wins," Johanna insists, slowly, coldly. "I don't care about Annie. I don't care about Matilda. I'm _trying _to warn you that Matilda can't swim. She's going to die, and Annie's going to win. This is your last chance to prevent it. Whatever you think is right." She lowers her voice even further, so I have to lean in to hear. "You won't get to keep her, Finnick. You know she won't be free."

"Snow won't want her," I spit, sounding more confident than I feel.

She almost laughs. Almost. "Oh, is that what you think?"

"She could never… she's damaged goods, the people won't want her," I insist.

"They want her now. She's the favorite to win at the moment. Or didn't you notice?"

"No…" I shiver with disgust. "Snow only asks the prettiest victors."

Johanna's eyebrows shoot up, and she jerks away from me. "The prettiest? Like you, you mean?"

Yes, it sounds horribly conceited, but it's not like I like it this way. "Yes. Like me."

"You don't think Annie's pretty?"

I hesitate, because I don't have words to adequately describe Annie. "I think that…I think that _I _think she's pretty…"

"You think I'm pretty?" she asks bluntly.

Not at the moment, with her eyes narrowed into slits, nostrils flaring at me. But even if I did, there's no way she'd ever take a compliment from me. I frown at her, a bit afraid to answer either way. "Yeah… no, you're… fine."

"He asked me."

I freeze. Johanna is not gorgeous. She is average, plain-pretty. Plain-pretty like Annie. "Wait… you were… invited?" That's what I received, an 'invitation' to live in the Capitol on my sixteenth birthday.

"Is that so hard to believe, hot stuff?" Johanna snaps. "That there are others? Not everybody here is rich enough to afford you."

My stomach does another flip. Johanna doesn't "socialize" with the Capitol people. She very openly flaunts her disgust for them. Which means… "You said 'no'?" Impossible. It was a question with one answer and one answer only.

"Of course I said no!" Johanna flushes bright red. "Of course I did… I wasn't going to- to sell my soul!" Her voice is tightening, like she's having trouble squeezing the words out. "I'm no sellout!"

I reach out, but she turns away from me, leaning over the sink, breathing raggedly. Because I'm the sellout. I'm the one who was willing to do anything so I wouldn't have to deal with whatever the Capitol has just put Johanna through. I can only imagine what they've put her through. It's no wonder she resents me.

"Johanna, I didn't fight for myself, but I'd fight for Annie," I state calmly. "I would've… I would've fought for you, if I'd known-" I stop short, unsure. Would I really have? Would I have set myself against the Capitol's orders for a girl I barely knew? I don't know. I'm not as brave as I ever thought I was.

"Yeah, good luck with that. I fought Snow, all right, I fought him alone. And he killed my family," she chokes out. There are tears, actual tears in Johanna's eyes. How many more people are going to get ripped apart right in front of me? I pull her into a hug, hoping to piece just one of them back together. She pushes me away, and then slaps me, for good measure. I rub my cheek lightly, not surprised but still stung.

"I'm not looking for your sympathy, all right?" she snarls, swiping at her cheeks bitterly. "I'm still looking for an ally."

"Oh, you're gonna start a rebellion, Mason?" I half-tease, in a whisper, trying to hide the fact that I'm still rolling my jaw around. Johanna doesn't slap half-heartedly.

"I don't have to," she assures me seriously. "I don't have to start it."

Something halfway between terror and excitement shudders down my spine. "What?" I hiss, reaching over and trying to turn the faucets on louder. "A rebellion? Like the Dark Days?" The look on her face confirms it. "Are you kidding me? See how well _that_ worked out?"

"We wouldn't be fighting alone now. They say… they say there's a Gamemaker…"

"No!" I cut her off. "I don't want to know!" The next chill down my spine, that's pure, unquestionably terror. "Johanna, those rebels are the reason we're here right now. They're the reason we were tributes. They're the reason we're mentors."

"Did your buddy Snow tell you that?" she asks with so much venom I'm sure it's going to strangle me.

"I don't want a part in this," I tell her simply.

"So you'd fight for Annie but nobody else?"

"I'm not going to get her killed. I'm not going to be responsible for getting everyone I know killed!" It's a cruel thing to say, because she must feel responsible, in a way, for her family's deaths. The hurt registers on her face before she can transform it into rage, and she's screaming and calling me a sellout and a traitor and a coward and all the other things that I already know I am.

"We're in the finale of the Games, Johanna, and nobody's watching the tributes. I'm leaving. And if you're smart, you will, too." I turn to go but not before she grabs my arm and hisses one last loaded comment into it.

"You love her, Odair? You want your happily-ever-after? That doesn't happen until _Snow- is- dead!_"

I shake her off and let the door slam shut behind me on the chorus of insults. I return to the cubicle and hold a hand out to my crazy girl, look in her eyes, and even if she lets go, I'm still hanging on. There is _no doubt _in my mind that I want her to win. None at all.

The only thing I doubt now is whether _she _wants to win, and keep on living in a world like this. Or worse, end up in my world.

I brush the thought aside, replace it with the hope that _Matilda can't swim. _She can't swim. I hold onto that single sentence of Johanna's, wishing I could forget everything else I just heard, knowing that I never will.

* * *

><p><strong>RIP Adrian, and Willow, and yeah, Blade too. I always sort of pictured that those first two have entries in Katniss and Peeta's memory book, if y'all remember that.<strong>

**Thanks for reading thus far, guys! I PROMISE the Games end next chapter, although that won't be the end of our tale. :) Annie still has a long road home ahead of her...  
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	24. Victorious

**The Games end. But first, a random flashback, and a cute scene with Mags, because I wrote and liked it so I had to work it in somewhere. :)**

**Just on a fun note, I was trying to upload this in Doc Manager, went to put in my author's notes, and realized I had uploaded a report on Cambodia I wrote when I was twelve... Not exactly the exciting conclusion we were expecting...  
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* * *

><p>When I was small, I knew a boy who told me he could swim forever.<p>

I told him I could swim longer.

His father was a friend of my uncle's, and we kids were supposed to training together, practicing our spearing and our netting in the shallow water. But we sneaked away, raced each other to a big boulder a hundred yards out at sea. He won, so I made him race further.

We were maybe eight years old, but we were already strong, fast, experienced swimmers, and the water didn't feel so cold at first. But after an entire afternoon of diving and rolling and fighting the waves, we were exhausted. We let ourselves float, and the sun sank and the water temperature plunged until everything was slow and dark and numb and blurry around the edges.

And then we were miraculously on dry land, freezing cold, dripping wet, and my mother was fussing and wrapping us in hot towels. We listened to the men scream at us and promise us a whooping later, and shook and shivered from the inside out. I remember asking my mother a bit vacantly why my fingers and toes were blue.

"Because we were just in time, that's why," she said, lips pursed seriously. "Another hour or so…"

Annie's lips are blue. Her fingers are blue, and I only assume her submerged toes are, too. Her eyes are green and red, bloodshot, scared, and empty. She swims away, far from where her allies' bodies were lifted, away from the purple-blood water. Looking for higher ground. There is none. That dam must have been holding back not a reservoir or a little lake, but a small finger of a larger body of water, because the arena is still filling. The water is still gushing in. Broken limbs, driftwood, float between the trees. The only branches that jut out above the water level now are thinner around than Annie's arm. How Matilda keeps climbing, I have no idea. She's just scaling straight up the trunk now, and maybe she can't hold on forever, but Annie, Annie's already slipping.

For once, I'm hoping that Johanna's right, and I'm wrong.

She's slipping, alright. I watch the reading from the tracker in her arm slip, one degree at a time. _Ninety degrees…Eight-nine…_

It's almost over. The Games are almost over.

Right? How could they not be?

I feel hands on my shoulders and turn to find Pallindra leaning over me. "Can I get you anything?" she asks in a low voice. It may be the first time she's come without a demand of me. I hesitate, squeezing my eyes shut in thought. My answer is so quiet and raspy, I'm surprised she understands it.

But she must, because a half hour later she's wheeling Mags into my cubicle. She's better than I last left her- all gummy smile and eyes bright with concern. But I'm much worse. I drop on my knees in front of her chair and wordlessly take both of her hands, and this time, she's the one who's searching my face, inspecting my new wrinkles.

"Finnick," she whispers. That's all it takes, my name in that familiar voice that couldn't say it for so long. A strange choking noise pushes out of my throat, and I'm even closer to my breaking point than I realized. I can't look at Mags. It's too much.

_Eighty-five degrees._

She doesn't say any more. I don't know if she can. She doesn't try to make me eat, because she remembers that food and I have never really been compatible during the Games. I go to rest my head on her lap, but she's holding something there already. A little rally sign that someone, probably Pallindra, handed her when she entered the Mansion. She lifts it up for me to read. _Finnick Loves Annie._ We both stare at it for a long moment, and she waits for the light to flick off on our dashboard, the cameras to turn away, before she reaches over and shakily traces a shape after the words. A question mark. "Rowboat?" she asks.

I nod miserably, and she tilts my chin up until our eyes meet.

And what do you know? I have tears left after all.

"Shhh, Finnick. Shhh," Mags hushes me. It's just the two of us in the dim room, and Johanna, who keeps her distance. The Mansion is silent except for the sound of my weeping. My old mentor cradles my head in her lap, strokes the hair back from my face. My reaction doesn't seem to surprise her a bit. "Rowboat," she croons, softly, just beside my ear. "Rowboat."

I know she isn't saying, "I told you so." But she could. She told me so.

I will never again doubt that Mags knows everything.

* * *

><p>There's an aftershock. Beetee didn't predict it.<p>

The water seems to vibrate. It roils and churns in waves like a hurricane back home. But there are no trees in Four to crack and topple in the storm's intensity. Here, the falling timber poses a hazard to both tributes. Annie dodges the branches, dives beneath the surface. Comes up after much too long, gasps for breath, shakes, swims, arms and legs moving much too slowly.

Matilda falls. She splashes down into the rolling murkiness, and she flails around. Screams. Sucks in water instead of air.

_Eighty-two degrees._

Matilda stops thrashing. She disappears beneath the surface.

Annie dives again. Annie doesn't come back up.

_Boom._

The cannon. The last cannon. Matilda drowned, just like Johanna said. But Annie… Annie's under, too. Precious seconds tick by, and I don't see her. She's nowhere.

"Ladies and Gentlemen!" I jump at the booming voice of Claudius Templesmith over the speakers that had been out of use for so long in the Mansion. "May I present Annie Cresta of District Four, victor of the 70th Annual Hunger Games!"

Yes. Yes, you may. Anytime now. I'm on my feet, fingernails digging into my dashboard. The largest, victor's hovercraft zips into view, and it's a ladder instead of a claw that plunges down into the water. She doesn't climb it, of course. I don't think she's conscious.

Pallindra's suddenly in the room, shrieking, laughing, crying, spinning Mags' wheelchair in celebration. There are half a dozen cameramen close behind her. "Finnick, she won! She won, Finnick!"

There are people in hazard suits diving out of the hovercraft.

"Is she breathing?" I ask weakly.

"Oh, she will be soon." Pallindra says dismissively, then thumps my back lightly with her palm and hisses, "Smile, we're live. Say hi to Panem!" I'm whirled around in my chair. "Hi, Panem!" she squeals for me.

There's a huge swell of sound as the Capitol anthem begins with gusto, and rainbow confetti sprinkles down, smacking my face, powdering my dashboard. Maybe I should feel victorious. But all I can think is, if somebody doesn't do something _fast_, the 70th Annual Hunger Games won't have any victor at all.

* * *

><p>Everything is a blur of flash photography and microphones and cheering crowds, painted faces. In the few hundred yards out of the Mansion, down the steps, to our waiting ride, a hundred people pump my hand and congratulate me. Johanna squeezes it and mutters, "Good luck."<p>

I lose Mags somewhere in the crowd and Pallindra tells me we don't have time to help her get loaded into the limousine. Yes, we're taking a limousine to a hospital, and it's just as wrong as anything else here. She pushes me through the door into the backseat and tells at least ten reporters, "I'm sorry, no comment for the moment, but you look fabulous, and aren't they just the perfect couple?" She climbs in beside me and shuts the door and she's rambling about how excited she is, and how excited I should be, and how nothing has been this exciting since I won five years ago today.

I press my forehead wearily against the window and hope it's tinted.

She finally pauses and gives me a sympathetic look. "You're worried about her. Finnick, ask me how many people have ever died in this hospital. How many _victors_, specifically?"

I don't particularly feel like asking her anything.

"Not a one. The technology we have here in the Capitol, it's not like Four. The brilliant minds, the surgeons, they would never, _ever_, let her die. It would be _so_ unnecessary."

Unnecessary? Because Willow, and Adrian, and Otto's head, and Annie's mind, those were all _necessary_? I whirl around, ready to rip those lavender lips off.

"You shut your mouth about unnecessary," I snarl. "I don't want to hear _another word- _about unnecessary."

She shuts her mouth with an extremely injured look, and starts making silent plans to sedate me at the hospital.

* * *

><p>There's one good thing I can say for the waiting room- there's more room to pace than in my cubicle. Pallindra watches me swing back and forth through the rows of chairs, like a pendulum, and her vow of silence doesn't last long.<p>

"I might point out that you were in pretty bad shape yourself when you came out of the arena," she says calmly.

I imagine her sitting in this room five years before with Mags, waiting to see if I was really, truly alive. Mags probably paced, too, if that was before her knees went bad. I squeeze my eyes shut, because every memory I have associated with this hospital, my own recovery, is shoved down into the darkest corners of my mind. I know if there's anyone feeling less victorious than I do right now, it's Annie.

A white-coated doctor with black feathers strung through his ears emerges through a swinging door, clipboard in hand, and sits me down beside Pallindra. He explains to us, slowly and patiently, that Annie is in something called an incubator, and they are bringing her temperature up gradually, to prevent further shock to her nervous system. He says that they're beginning to pump some warm fluids into her through an IV, and that while she's still not out of the woods, they'll work around the clock and, well, they haven't lost one yet.

"Any questions?" he offers when he's finished, because I've never been here before, not as a mentor.

"Is she breathing?" I ask, even though I know they wouldn't be bothering with the other stuff if she wasn't.

The man gives me a look like he thinks I'm either very sad, or very stupid. "Yes, Mr. Odair. She's breathing quite nicely."

He disappears again with a swish of his coat-tails and the swinging door behind him. I lean back in my chair and the fact suddenly wallops me for the first time, so hard it almost hurts.

Annie won. Annie Cresta won the Hunger Games.

I start laughing then, because all I can see is her trembling as she mounted the platform during the Reaping, me glancing at her and shaking my head hopelessly. Because she didn't have a chance. Not the slightest. And on the train, dutifully asking about the special skill I was sure she didn't have.

_I can swim._

And me silently telling her that was useless. And me silently telling myself I didn't care.

I am almost hysterical now, because I am so glad that I didn't know anything after all. Pallindra's leaning over and trying to get my attention and threatening to medicate me. But I'm remembering holding Annie in the bathroom doorway, trying to think of last words to her and failing. But it doesn't matter now, I didn't need to, I'm going to see her again.

For a minute, I let myself forget that she's not the same person anymore.

I finally suppress my hysterics to near silence, but I'm laughing inside. I'm filled with an illogical giddiness that only comes as the backlash of two solid weeks of misery. I tap my foot impatiently. I'm going to see her, I'm going to hold her, I'm going to- no, I'm not going to kiss her, not Annie, not when there have been so many others.

Two out of three. I'll take two out of three.

The feather-eared doctor comes out again, followed by another white-suited man wearing a surgical mask, talking very rapidly in low voices. They both look extremely flustered, frustrated, maybe even frightened, and the first doctor wrings his hands together, clutches one inside the other anxiously, like he's afraid it'll fall off.

"What's going on?" I call, a bit of the light-hearted adrenaline already fading. They turn like they're startled to see me. "Is she conscious?"

"Yes, Mr. Odair, she just came to," says the surgeon in the mask, but he doesn't look happy about it.

"What's wrong? Is she alright?" I rise out of my seat and hurry over to them. "Is she stable?"

The two men exchange a look that I don't have time to understand. Then the feathered one holds out the hand he's cradling. Ugly, bleeding teeth marks zigzag across the back of it. "Would you like to rephrase the question, Mr. Odair?" he asks grimly.

Stable. Bad choice of words. I shut my eyes for a moment, draw a quick breath in. _We can deal with this. _"Can I see her?" I crane my neck to look past the doctors, through the swinging door into the white-washed hallway.

"Soon enough, sir, she's being prepped for surgery."

"_Surgery?_" I scream. "What the heck for?"

Another exchanged look, and from their uncomfortable expressions, I know it's cosmetic. "Annie's a little _small _for someone her age, we're expected to make a few… adjustments," the masked one says, almost apologetically.

_Adjustments. _Like she's a car in need of a little fine-tuning. "I am her mentor," I growl, rising to my full height, making sure I tower over those puny Capitol men. "You don't do _anything _without my consent! Do you understand me?"

And for a moment, they don't see Annie's mentor, or the Capitol's playboy, or anybody but the too-old fourteen-year-old from the arena, wild with rage, bloodlust in his eyes. I raise a fist and we all see the points of the trident gleaming under the florescent lighting. Those doctors nod and duck their heads and quiver, and after the powerlessness of the past few weeks in that cubicle, I can't say that it doesn't feel really, really good.

"I'm going to see her!" I brush past them without looking back.

"They're about to sedate-"

I wave my invisible trident, for effect. "Only a minute! I'll just be a minute!"

I push through swinging doors and hear her shrill screams from the other end of the hall. My heartbeat quickens. _We can deal with this. We won the Games, we can deal with anything._

I probably bit a doctor or two, on my victory day.

The moment I enter the operating room, the screaming sounds ten times louder. There are at least a dozen doctors and nurses floating around her, taking vitals, monitoring her heartbeat on a little screen. But everything in the room seems to recede when I reach her- hair matted, clothes tattered, skin scratched and cut from debris, the most beautiful girl I've ever seen. "Annie!" I call before I can stop myself, and then have a moment of panic, thinking she won't recognize me.

But she turns, and the next tortured sound dies in her throat, transforms into my name. "_Finnick!_" she shrieks, no less desperately than before. I'm at her side in a heartbeat, and she's still gasping for breath. Her eyes are wild and scared but not crazed, not completely, and they're still a steady sea-green like the ocean.

"Finnick, help me," she begs, twisting, writhing under the restraints around her middle. She reaches out and I grab her hand and drop onto my knees, pressing the ice-cold back of it against my cheek. I suppose this isn't the way a mentor typically greets his tribute, but I don't care. There are no cameras in here. No one wants to see their victor in this kind of pain.

"It's okay, Annie. It's over," I murmur. "You won. You won."

"Get me out of here!" Annie cries again. After the arena, of course, she sees everything in here as a threat. "Help me! Get me out… get me out…"

"I promise, these people are doctors. They're trying to help you. We're just trying to help you, Annie." I'm very pointlessly brushing the hair back from her face, just because I can now. "They saved your life."

"No! _No!_" More troubling wails, twisting, fighting the metal bands. "Help me! You've got to help me!"

"What can I do?" I ask her lamely. I'm thinking that I would do _anything_ to ease this agony. "How can I help?"

Annie stops struggling, just for a moment, and her eyes lock on mine. "Kill me," she whispers.

Anything but that. Two words, and everything crashes again.

I wait for the old Annie's wry little smile, a hint of dark humor in her terrified expression. Or some trace of insanity to show me that she doesn't know what she's saying. But there's nothing but pleading in her wild eyes. Pleading, and so much pain. Tears immediately sting at the back of my eyes. "Oh, Annie, no…" I murmur.

"I killed them all!" she cries sharply. "I killed them all and I should have died too!" She starts thrashing again, so convinced of this lie that she's mad with it. She's got a hold of her IV now and she's trying to rip it out of the crook of her arm, maybe hoping that's what is sustaining her life. I wrestle her fingers away from the tubes and hold on, hearing Johanna's voice ringing all too loudly in my ears. _You _really _want her to win?_

I may have just made the worst mistake of my life.

"Annie, stop!" I clutch her hand tighter. "Don't say that! You- you can't say that-" I nearly shout because I'm talking to myself as much as to her.

"Give me one good reason!" she shrieks and wrenches away from me. "Just one!"

One good reason. She only needs one. There are a thousand reasons I could have and probably should have named. Her awaiting public, District 4's honor, her family, her friends, her boyfriend.

But the only thing I manage to choke out is, "I love you, Annie. I love you."

The weight of this confession takes a moment to hit both of us. Annie stops thrashing, sucks in a breath of air. She turns to me, bewildered, trembling, studying my face, and for some reason my heart starts pounding violently as I wait for her reply.

And then whatever drugs they have pumped into her kick in, and her head drops back against the pillow. Her eyelids sink shut, her breathing slows, the grip on my hand gradually releases. I lower my head into my hands and stay like that for a long, long time.

I don't even think she heard.

* * *

><p><strong>Oh, Finnick. :'( There's some good old fashion angst for you. Can I possibly torture him any more?<strong>

**I'm REALLY interested to hear thoughts and opinions on this chapter. I know that the end of the Games was a bit anti-climatic, it was sort of intentional. But this is definitely NOT the end of the story, thanks for reading this far and sticking around for Annie and Finnick a little longer... there will be romance, someday... :D Someday soon...**


	25. Healing

**I return, with my longest chapter yet. Longest, because it's a hodgepodge of scenes dealing with the aftermath of the Games, and as I've mentioned before I have trouble leaving any scenes out. :)**

**But first, another flashback to Finnick's Games that I loved writing. I love anything with Mags. :D It's not quite exactly necessary but it came to me in the middle of the night, and everything inspired in the middle of the night has a purpose, right? Anyway, enjoy! Annie's letter WILL be opened! :O  
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><p>"<em>Ladies and Gentlemen, may I present to you Finnick Odair! Victor of the 65th Annual Hunger Games!"<em>

_I drop my trident and sink to my knees beside my final kill, an eternally nameless boy from District Nine, still draped in the fishing net. I scream, a dark and terrifying sound, so that this is how the audience will always remember me. Bold, brutal, beautiful, bleeding in several places but not showing the slightest bit of pain. Hopefully they won't notice the things I worked hard to make them forget. The bum arm, the infected alligator bite, the trembling from the fever I've been trying to hide. And the fact that I don't remember exactly why I wanted to win. At all._

_The moment I'm lifted onto the hovercraft, my body goes into shock._

* * *

><p><em>I'm in recovery for two days total.<em>

_I drift in and out of consciousness for the first day, and when I come around for the final time, I'm lying in a hospital bed in an embarrassingly open white gown. I'm so heavily medicated that my arms and legs feel heavy and weightless at the same time, and I'm having trouble remembering. Oh, yes, Hunger Games. I killed people. I try to tick them off on my fingers, but stop short when they don't fit on one hand._

_My shoulder is cleaned and bandaged and numbed to itching, intensely. I vaguely recall clawing wildly at it when I woke up once or twice and immediately getting knocked out again. I'm not sure that I want to be knocked out again, so I content myself with squirming around, gritting my teeth, trying to think of what's ahead, the parties and the ceremonies and my crown, and not what's behind- the ghosts of the dead who outnumber my fingers._

_I only receive one visitor. I don't hear Mags come in, I'm too busy rubbing my bandaged shoulder miserably against the too-smooth frame of the bed. "Uncomfortable?" she asks, a sympathetic smile playing on her lips. I frown and sink back, embarrassed, unable to pretend to be asleep like every other time she's come in to talk to me. "It's a good thing," she continues. "It means you're healing."_

_I lie down and pull the covers up to my chin, just wanting to be alone. There is only one face currently bringing me comfort, and that's my avenged father smiling down at me, cheering me on, because quite frankly, I don't feel like congratulating myself. Mags is bringing with her a whole different set of images- training, evenings spent in the District Four penthouse, teaching us to play checkers as a distraction from the upcoming horrors. We had a championship, and Cassandra won, and she gloated terribly, but I guess she's a loser now. I guess she lost. I start to shake, violently, before I can stop myself. I bury my face in the pillow, hiding from Mags, who loved Cassandra better, or should have, at least. But of course, she sees. She sees everything. _

"_There's a season for everything, Finnick," she begins wisely, philosophically. I don't want to hear about it, how this is my season of misery, because even though my body's been numbed, I'm in the worst pain of my life. But I'm still fourteen. I still know everything. And I'm still too proud to run to Mags' lap like a wounded puppy._

"_A time to kill and a time to heal," the old woman continues, pacing to the window, pulling back sterile white curtains, letting in too much sunlight. I yelp and pull the blankets over my head, rubbing my eyes. Mags is suddenly hovering over me, tugging down the covers, forcing a little light into my darkness. She brushes hair off my forehead and I tense up, still mentally halfway in the arena, ready for a fight. "Seasons change," she whispers, and her voice is strangely tender. "It's your time to heal."_

_Easier said than done._

* * *

><p>It quickly becomes apparent that Annie will need longer than two days in recovery.<p>

They kick me out of the room soon after she passes out, although a nurse with diamond-studded skin comes out to the waiting room periodically to update me on her condition. Annie's body is recovering fully from the effects of the hypothermia, but they're still keeping her under sedation the majority of the day. "Her mind needs rest," she tells me apologetically.

After another hour or so another doctor joins us, one I haven't seen before. He's got an intricate pattern shaved in the short hair on his head, and I can't tell if it's a picture of something or just some sort of a floral print. He introduces himself as Annie's psychiatrist.

Oh, good, the head doctor has arrived. I vaguely recall having one of those, too, although I made his job easy. I wasn't anxious- _really_- I slept just fine, thank you- _between the nightmares_- and yes, I felt plenty safe… as far as he could tell. He checked a few items off a clipboard and congratulated himself on a job well done.

I don't picture Annie fooling anyone anytime soon.

"Mr. Odair," he begins, raising the clipboard pressed to his chest, pencil hovering like a vulture. "To the best of your knowledge, did Annie Cresta have any previous history of mental illness?"

I squeeze my eyes shut in thought, because I knew Annie all of one week before the Games started, and the week before the Games is not necessarily a fair representation of a person's normal behavior. The hysteria in the bathroom that morning, I guess it could have been a panic attack. But I would say the ones who don't panic are sicker.

So I answer, "No, I don't think so. Why do you ask?"

He frowns, and his voice is tight when he speaks again. "Because if somebody's already written a book on her, I'd like to read it instead of spending all my time writing this one," he says, gesturing to the notes on his clipboard.

There's nothing more for Pallindra and Mags and me to do today, so we return to the penthouse. It's the first night in weeks that I'm in a bed instead of a cot, that there are no screens to watch, no danger lurking in the shadows. I should be out like a light, but I'm not. I don't sleep for a moment. I lay there and stare at the ceiling and replay our conversation again and again in my head, haunted by the tortured look in Annie's eyes. For once, it's not her instability that frightens me, but the fact that she was completely _lucid_ when she begged me to end her life. And what did I do?

Confessed my undying love for her. As if she doesn't have enough problems.

_Oh, Annie, dear, you have some much to live for, the Capitol's slave is in love with you, you know, the one you see at home on TV, doing all those horrible, horrible things, who harassed you and then sent you into the Hunger Games, where you lost your mind._

I don't know what I was thinking. I wasn't, really. It's a good thing she passed out when she did. Who knows how badly that revelation could have messed with her? I remember the expression that crossed her face right after I said it, the complete bewildered, horrified shock, and knew immediately it was a mistake.

I don't sleep at all, and yet I still have trouble scraping myself out of bed the next morning. Mags eyes me with concern at the breakfast table, but I don't tell her. I don't tell her that I told Annie, because it was so stupid of me, and she didn't hear anyway, and I doubt I'll ever find the nerve to say it again, not to those half-dead eyes, when I'm only a painful reminder of all things Hunger Games and Capitol. I have no right to feel so sorry for myself, either, not when Annie's suffering like this. Not when there's a boy in Eleven whose girl isn't coming home at all tonight.

And Annie isn't even my girl, anyway.

I return to the hospital after breakfast, and someone immediately hands me Annie's medical file. There are two of them, actually. The "official" one follows Willow's lead. It states that Annie is suffering the aftermath of a severe concussion, likely sustained when her district partner shoved her to the ground during the battle on Day 7 of the Games. It's so obviously a lie, but the Capitol doctors are playing for the audience, too, and they'll never admit that an unstable girl won. The Gamemakers would get blamed for it, and the doctors, like everybody else, want to avoid the wrath of the Gamemakers. But I get the real medical file, and I immediately do a cursory flip-through, watching for those phrases that pop out and grab me by the throat. _Severe post-traumatic stress. Panic attacks. Psychotic episodes. Selective amnesia. Possible hallucinations. Borderline insanity._

_Suicidal._

That same chipper nurse comes out then and gives me the good news. They've given Annie some medication, and she's noticeably calmer.

Calmer. That's definitely putting a positive spin on it. When they finally manage to squeeze me in for another visit that evening, _calmer _isn't the word that comes to my mind. The drugs may have taken the edge off her hysteria, but the pain has just taken a different form. She's curled into a little ball in her hospital bed, hands clamped tightly over her ears, drawn into herself. Every muscle is rigid and locked with anxiety. Her eyes are glazed and distant. Hollow.

I can see that the Capitol doctors have been working around the clock to patch up the outside of Annie. The skin on her arms and legs is red and tender from the waxing, her nails have been clipped evenly and buffed, her hair is clean and straightened to a shine. But what I notice most of all is that her scars have been erased. The bramble scratches across her face, claw marks down her arms, years' worth of rope burns on her hands. She's beautiful, of course, but something about it sends hot anger coursing through me. The Gamemakers tear people apart and then pretend like they can undo the damage from the arena. One look at Annie, though, and I know they have broken something they can never repair.

She doesn't even acknowledge me when I enter. The faraway, dead-to-the-world expression is too painful a reminder of the days I nearly lost her in the arena. With one exception. She's no longer out of my reach. I sit down beside her on the bed and wrap my arms around her, rub her back, squeeze her stiff arms gently to get the muscles to relax a bit. At the very least, she doesn't resist me. But Annie's frozen, and it takes my entire visiting hour just to thaw her out. Her muscles finally loosen, and she collapses against me and just shakes.

"I can't watch you give up, Annie," I whisper.

Not this first day. Not ever.

I stay until they kick me out again.

* * *

><p>I don't know what the Capitol doctors do to her, but when I return the next morning, Annie's curled up again, rigid, staring into emptiness. I sit down and start over, massaging her shoulders, telling her that she's safe. That I, for one, am not going anywhere.<p>

It takes her a little less time to thaw out today. She still won't speak, but she responds to my touch. There's a bowl of soup left on the bedside table that doesn't look like it's even been tasted. I pick it up and manage to coax a few bites into her.

The feather-eared doctor comes in eventually and tells me to let her sleep, but he hesitates when he sees that she's actually eating. Willingly. It's the first food she's taken by mouth. I realize just how desperate the Capitol doctors are for some sign of success, because I become part of her therapy. I'm listed on her schedule. My visits are important, so important, because the doctors pump her full of medication, but they don't talk to her, don't touch her. They're just expecting her to get better. But I know that she won't ever truly begin to heal until she's at home with her family. I have to get her out of this place.

She utters her first words since she begged me to kill her. Her voice is a raspy, strained whisper, but it's something. She mostly denies everything that I tell her.

"You're safe now, Annie."

"No, I'm not."

"No matter what they tell you, you're not crazy, all right?"

"Yes, I am."

Progress. I have to tell myself that it's progress.

After three days, the people of Panem still have not seen their victor. They haven't had their parties. They haven't had their fireworks. They haven't even seen _me_. And this is unacceptable. After all the agonizing waiting of the Games, how can we keep them suffering like this?

Pallindra insists that we have to throw a little something to the sharks, or we're going to have a riot on our hands soon enough. And she's probably right. So three days after Annie's victory, _I'm_ the one sitting in with a prep team, getting gussied up while they lament the fact that they could never lose so much weight, just sitting in a chair for two weeks, the way I did. They haven't mastered the mentor's diet of coffee and adrenaline and heartsickness. But the suit they pick for me beefs me back up to normal size, and the dark circles still disappear with a small sweep of the make-up brush, so I look like the old Finnick Odair again.

I go out on TV, and I sound like him, too.

The crowd I talk to in the public square consists mostly of over-zealous Games fans, dozens of reporters, and only a small number of mentors. I imagine the majority of them booked the next train home as soon as their tributes bit it. I only catch sight of Gloss and Cashmere, all dolled up as well, which surprises me quite a bit until I remember that both of them occasionally have 'jobs' here in the Capitol.

Oh, that's right. So do I. That squealing, shrieking huddle of women on my left is a jolting reminder of the fact, and it turns out that they didn't stop existing just because Annie won.

I am interviewed.

_Mr. Odair, were you at all surprised when the dam burst in the finale of the Games?_

_Well, sure, we all were at first, what with the volcano being the largest hazard in the arena-_

_Don't you think circumstances worked out rather fortunately in your favor, being from the fishing district?_

_Of course not. While it's true every tribute has a particular skill set at which they excel, it's not unreasonable to expect a competitor to be trained and prepared for anything-_

_Where is Miss Cresta at this time?_

_Recovery unit. She's suffered a severe concussion._

_Can you explain for us the delay?_

_No comment._

_And the nature of your relationship?_

_No comment at this time, please. _But I wink, so that I'm fooling nobody and everybody at the same time. Maybe even myself.

And the serious reporter gets shoved out of the way by the head of some gossip magazine, and suddenly I'm being asked if I think Annie Cresta has a great body. If I still had the ability to blush I'd be blood-red, but thankfully, I don't. I sort of goof around and then say yes _of course_, eventually, because I'm pretty terribly sure that I _don't_ want them changing her.

There are the interviews and then a multi-course lunch with the sponsors, who praise my ingenuity with Snow's check and the pepper, wondering how on earth I knew that a good sneeze was enough to rattle Annie's brains back into place- after a concussion, of course. It's really truly incredible what these people will believe.

I feel myself slipping by the end of the afternoon. I return to the our penthouse just long enough to change clothes and jam some now-crumpled envelopes into my pocket, and then head out again. Because the truth is, it bothers me, being here and just seeing Otto's closed bedroom door. I can see him slamming it after Annie showed him up with the knives, hear his loud voice echoing all too clearly down the hall. If I let myself think about it for too long, there are more ghosts lurking here, eager enough to join him.

"Where are you going?" Pallindra calls after me.

"Hospital."

She shakes her head. "You're supposed to meet with Caesar Flickerman's secretary for dinner to discuss the upcoming interview-"

Oh, yes. The interview in which Annie will be forced to live through the entire Hunger Games again. "Cancel it. She needs me."

"Dr. Ulysses promised to call if you could be a help."

"_She needs me._" It's more like I need her. I need to see her and know that she's still breathing.

"But-"

And not for the first or last time in my life I slam a door in Pallindra's face, and hear Otto's temper in the echo.

* * *

><p>I really need to get better about names.<p>

The feather-eared doctor whose title has more syllables than our Treaty of Treason tells me that Annie's napping when I arrive, and I'm somehow both disappointed and relieved. I slip into her room anyway, easing the door open silently. There's a little lamp glowing on the bedside table- I imagine Annie can't sleep in the dark anymore- and I pause for just a moment and marvel that, with its soft light cast on her still face, she actually looks peaceful now, even safe. I can't bring myself to spoil that. I set the letters on the table and tiptoe away.

And the stupid door creaks.

"Finnick?" a soft voice calls. I spoiled it.

I wince and turn back around, and Annie's awake and watching me in the dimness. She sits up and I have to smile, because it's the first time in days she's taken any notice of me. There's something different in her face, too. A few of the clouds have cleared from her eyes. "Finnick, you came."

I pace back around, perch on the edge of the bed, facing her. "Of course I did."

She rubs her eyes sleepily. "You were here yesterday, weren't you?"

I nod. "And the day before?" she asks uncertainly.

"I'm here whenever they let me in," I assure her.

Annie leans back against the pile of pillows and closes her eyes, managing a small smile. "Thank you," she murmurs.

I think I melt a little, right then and there.

"How do you feel?" I whisper intently.

She bites her lip. "A little better…"

"Annie." That's all I have to say, and she knows that I know she's lying.

She sighs wearily, all the way from her toes. "It hurts," she murmurs. "It shouldn't. I couldn't keep breakfast down, even though… they said it wasn't real."

_What? _ I frown, trying hard to keep up with her disjointed thoughts. "What's not real, Annie?"

"The pain." She swallows. "In my stomach. It hurts so much. Everything hurts, but nothing's wrong with me. The doctor… the doctor says it's all in my head." She wraps her arm around her gut and the way she screws up her face, it seems real enough to me. I squeeze her hand but resist the urge to wrap my arms around her, because now that she's conscious she could probably use a little space.

"They brought in another doctor for my head, you know," she continues, a bit spacey. "Because I have trouble sleeping and.. and… concentrating. I can't finish my… can't finish…"

She trails off, obviously frustrated. I just nod. "Yes, I met your new doctor. How do you like him?"

Annie shrugs. "He's alright. He likes to ask questions, but he doesn't answer mine. I'm afraid to ask. When I do he just looks at me like I'm crazy."

"You're _not _crazy," I insist.

"That's what he says, too. He lies a lot."

Somehow I don't doubt that. "Tell you what, Annie. You can ask me. Ask me anything, and I promise I'll tell you the truth."

"Promise?" Yes, of course, another promise from Finnick. She eyes me like she would make a snide remark, if they still came fast nowadays.

"I promise. Annie, I gave up pretending with you a long time ago."

She nods and takes another shaky breath. "Just shoot. Anything… hit me!" I grin lopsidedly.

"Did I kill Otto?"

My face freezes like that, but the grin has become a grimace. "What?" I'm hoping I somehow misheard.

"_Did I?_" Her face is flushing, and I can feel the tremble start in the hand I'm holding.

I shake my head fiercely. "No… No, of- of course you didn't!" This truly scares me. "Oh, _Annie_-"

"See! _Right there!_" she cries suddenly, pointing a finger between my eyes. "That face! That's the face he makes! You think-" she chokes, a bit hysterical. "You think I'm crazy!"

"No!" I take hold of both her arms until she calms down some, wiping the emotion off my own face. I meet her gaze steadily, trying to hide how _extremely _troubled I am by this memory lapse. "Annie, you did not kill Otto. I can assure you of that. And you were in _no way _responsible for his death, do you understand me?"

She nods, shivers a little. "What about Willow?" she whispers.

"No," I answer calmly. "Not Willow either. Or Adrian. Never, never, never."

Annie turns that over in her mind for a long time but doesn't seem relieved. Her brow furrows and she shakes more violently than before. "Who did I kill?" Her voice is almost begging. I hesitate. "Please tell me. They won't tell me."

I'm caught in a horrible place, because I promised to tell her the truth, but to make good on it now will only cause her more pain. It seems I'm always trying to choose the thing that will hurt Annie _less,_ and I can never really be sure beforehand. I swallow hard and see how desperately she _needs _to know this, and I have to tell her. She has to be able to trust somebody. "Her name was Shannon." I watch her start to slip. "It was self-defense, Annie, she was going to kill you!"

Long silence. Annie shakes. "Oh," she murmurs at last. "They told me nobody. They said- I didn't kill anyone." Her hands fly to her ears and she starts rocking herself again, back and forth. Back and forth. I bite my lip and try not to feel responsible for this.

I fail.

It feels like much longer than the actual five minutes before Annie comes back around. She studies me intently, a curious light flickering in her eyes. "You killed people." I nod slowly, even though it wasn't a question, and fight off the flood of faces. In that moment I understand all too well what Annie sees when she phases out. She shivers harder, draws her knees up to her chin. "You must think I'm very weak," she whispers.

But I don't. Annie may have lost her mind but- she held onto something else, something bigger, something I quickly threw away in the arena. Her humanity. Her ability to care. That's why the Games broke her so badly. She wouldn't quit caring.

"No, Annie." I pull her up to my chest, and she allows it. She allows me to hold her tight. "I think you're very, very strong."

* * *

><p>We sit in silence for a long while before I remind her, gently, that she only has to spend a bit longer in the Capitol and then she can go home, to Four. She nods but doesn't speak, doesn't get excited, and I realize she doesn't remember much about Four now. Maybe nothing at all. I take the letters from her bedside table and tuck them into her hand, all but one. "Just take a look at them," I instruct her. "You love these people a lot."<p>

I turn to go, slipping one envelope back into my pocket. Maybe I should return it, too, but she promised I could read it after the Games. And it's after the Games, isn't it?

I sink into a hard-backed chair in the waiting room and tear a slit in the top. I pull out the letter, a single page, and remember how I couldn't think of any last words that day, but I guess Annie did. These are hers, the last thing she wanted me to know before she died, and I'm nervous. I'm so nervous, because maybe this is the last trace I will ever have of the old Annie.

There's no greeting, it's a short note and she plunged right in, I guess.

_Oh, Finnick… the things they always told me about you… a whole lot of terrible things, if you can picture that. And of course I believed them. I believed them until they reaped me and told me I was a heartless killer, too. Now I can only apologize. And I have to go now, but I really believe that I'm not the only one who's going to see through you, someday. I can't thank you enough for being here through everything. If I have any chance in the world, it's because of your help. It's funny- I never imagined a lunatic like you would end up being my anchor._

Yeah. It's funny how things turn out that way.

The bottom of the letter is folded beneath the rest, and when I turn it up I find only a doodle. A doodle of a tiny bird, and then the signature. I bury my face in my hands.

It's signed _Chickadee_.

* * *

><p><strong>Awwww! I love the letter. :) Makes you wonder how things might have been... Anyway, I'd love thoughts, feedback, critique as we move into the nextfinal portion of our tale! Right now, I have this coming out to about 34 chapters total, but that's constantly changing so we'll see. :D**

**Extra piece of the two-hundred review cake to whoever can identify Mags' quote from the beginning...  
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	26. Setback

**I am spoiling perfection to post this. My OCD is so happy with the 25 chapters and 250 reviews I'm at currently, but, nothing lasts forever. :P  
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**I'm not sure why I wrote this. I never really know, I just wait for you reviewers to explain it to me. :) Anyway, one more chapter about Annie's recovery and then the Post-Games stuff will start, interviews and parties and all, and there will be plenty of things happening. But for right now, this is slow and simple and there will be FLUFF at the end. Why? Because I've tortured these characters for the last 25 chapters, I think they deserve a little fluff! :D**

**To answer a question raised, 'chickadee' is what Finnick called Annie before the start of the Games. He started out mocking her with it and then it became a sort of pet name for her. He quit using during the Games, because, well, he couldn't talk to her, and it would have just felt a little wrong, pet names during life and death situations... Enjoy!  
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* * *

><p>A funny thing happens. We both survive.<p>

That's what it feels like at first- mostly just survival. A week goes by, and at the least, Annie doesn't ask me to kill her again, and I start to eat, almost like a normal person, and sleep sometimes. I do interviews and talk shows and pretend the two of us have a history together, and the Capitol wears me out in a way that it never has before. My visits with that crazy girl in the hospital become the bright spot in every day.

I learn her doctors' names, one by one, and repeat them to myself until I can remember. They do their best to explain Annie to me, with complicated medical terminology that sort of drifts between my ears, only pausing long enough to scare me sometimes. Still, the longer I spend with her, the more I start to understand, in my own way.

She has a lot of ups and down, for sure, which I expected. She has 'wet days', when the tears flow fast and easy and about almost anything, and the words pour out of her mouth in a flood she can't control. And then there are the dry days, which can be harder to deal with. Annie will draw her knees up and stare into space, and not cry and not talk and not eat. That's another thing, she's often sick to her stomach for no apparent reason. But that's something else I remember from my victory, that after you win the Hunger Games, you never really need an excuse to throw up again.

I learn. I learn how to talk to her, how to deal with her episodes. She checks out from reality frequently, often in the middle of a conversation, and I learn to tell when to simply wait for her to return and when she's on the verge of panic again. We never discuss the Games unless she brings it up, which she rarely does. It messes her up too much, at first, to even think of training, or to talk to Pallindra, who tries to visit once or twice. According to Dr. Ulysses, the psychiatrist, there is only one thing relating to the Games that doesn't trigger some sort of mental meltdown for her.

Me.

And then she has some strange triggers that don't seem to relate to the Games much, at first glance. I learn as I'm leaving one afternoon, when I draw her blinds to let in a little sunlight and find clouds gathering, dark as twilight. There's thunder rumbling, and when I turn to go she catches my hand and whispers, "Stay. Please."

_Boom. _Annie goes white as cotton, and I suddenly understand.

"Does the sound bother you?" I ask softly.

She smiles a sheepish half-smile and I think I imagine it, at first, the tiny quirk of her eyebrows. "Can't we just say that I genuinely enjoy your company?" she teases.

I laugh, a lot harder than she does, because for a moment I'm talking to the Annie of the train and the training center, who could put me in my place almost as well as Mags could. "Sure, Annie. Let's say that."

I often stay until she's asleep.

So those first few days, there's mostly silence, because we can't talk about the Games and we can't think about anything else. And then gradually there are other subjects that become important, and one day life is a more interesting topic than death. Life in general and then life in Four. We talk about the ocean and the sunset on the water, and we're both longing for it but a little hazy in remembering. Her life. She finds little things she can recall about it, where she lived and what she liked to do. She even likes to talk about my life, sometimes, where I lived, what I liked doing. I have to censor large parts of it, relating to the Games and training and everything, but I still find a lot to tell her about myself. How I used to try to ride sea turtles and how I truly _can't_ cook, anything, ever, and Mags can testify to it. Annie giggles. I tell her a lot of silly things but never the one thing I actually want her to know.

Because that's when I learn that Annie's started getting death threats.

They came with the rest of the mail that Pallindra delivered to me in the penthouse this morning, mixed in with the thank-you notes from sponsors and my daily excess of fan mail. They all smell nauseatingly like perfume and lipstick and they're signed by 'my true love'. Or sometimes even 'my favorite'. I'm so glad these letters came through me first. Annie doesn't need to see them. Not when she's finally starting to feel safe again.

Didn't I always know this would happen? If I fell in love, the girl would pay. I've only been 'with' Annie for a week, we haven't even appeared in public together, but it's still six days longer than I've ever been with anyone else. It's still too dangerously close to commitment for those who want me. It only confirms what I've always known, deep down. I can't ever have a real relationship. For Annie's sake, this has to be fake, for the cameras. And it has to be temporary.

I thank Pallindra curtly but don't mention it to her. I do slip a couple of the notes to Mags at the dinner table. Her eyes skim the pages quickly and then narrow at me. "Who?" she demands in a whisper. "_Who_?"

Who are these women? Why don't they have husbands or boyfriends or pet cats to keep them company? I go through the pile again and, while I don't recognize any names, I have a sinking suspicion that a lot of these girls have more claim on me than I realized.

The real question _who _is who exactly do they think I am? These women spend their whole lives chasing the beautiful and flawless Finnick Odair, when I am so completely positive he doesn't exist. I would be the first to know.

* * *

><p>Four hours.<p>

That's how long the interview with Caesar Flickerman is scheduled to last, the first of several, of course. The first half hour or so will be spent interviewing the Victor. The last half hour, me and Mags and Pallindra and the prep team. The time in between is devoted to the Games highlights. A tape will be broadcast cramming the worst two weeks of a person's life into three hours. Somehow, the condensed version feels even longer.

Dr. Ulysses anticipates the wide-scale devastation this will have on Annie, if she's not prepared for it. But preparing Annie for the interview proves to be a daunting task, especially because she can't even handle talking to him about the Games for ten seconds at a time.

"She needs to start with someone safe," he insists.

Me. Again. So I am assigned the task of sitting and chatting with Annie about the one thing in the world that psychologically destroyed her. And to make things worse, she's in one of those moods today, not sad or angry or afraid, just not… there. Well, maybe that'll make things easier, if nothing I say gets filed away in her head. I'm not sure.

"Annie, can I talk to you about something? Can we remember something together?"' She stares into space. "Do you remember when you and I went to the training center together, in the night? And I taught you how to throw knives?"

Nothing. I wonder what it is about that blank wall that's more interesting than I am.

"After Mags got sick. Remember, Annie? Mags got sick and I was very sad. You helped her. And I helped you train."

Annie blinks, turns to me as if she's just noticing I'm there. "I'm not your audience," she says vacantly.

"That's right, Annie. You're not. That's what you told me then."

"I'm not. I'm not," she starts to sing-song. "Not me."

"And you're a very good audience not to have. But you're going to have an audience soon, your very own to talk to. In an interview."

"Are you my audience?" she asks.

"No. I'm not. But we're going to pretend I am, so you can practice." I lift the clipboard they gave me and skim the first question. _What were your feelings on being reaped? _Well, obviously pretty negative. I take a deep breath. "Can you pretend like you're talking to me?"

"I am talking to you."

"I mean when you talk to the audience."

Her forehead wrinkles in confusion. "But you said… pretend to talk to Derek."

Oh, yes, that's what I said before the last interview. I sigh. "Okay, then, talk to Derek." I hesitate, just for a moment. "Annie, who is Derek?"

Annie's face slowly breaks into a grin. "A puppy," she blurts out, and then dissolves into hysterical laughter. She laughs until her face is bright red and there are tears streaming down her cheeks. I just sit there and stare at the ceiling and bite my lip, smacking the clipboard impatiently against my forehead, trying to be glad that she's getting some enjoyment out of her delusions, for once.

"Yes, of course. Silly me. Okay then, you can pretend you're talking to me," I say, raising the sheet of paper again. "What were your thoughts on being reaped?"

She swabs at her eyes, still giggling breathlessly. "I thought about… _puppies!_" She's absolutely giddynow.

I'm bewildered. "Ooooo-kay. Puppies like Derek?"

And Annie dissolves into a fresh fit of laughter so intense she can't breath. She doubles over then, gasping at the imaginary pain still twisting in her stomach. My brow furrows as I stare at her. "Annie, did they… medicate you… again?"

She doesn't answer me. She sort of starts singing to herself, which only confirms the idea of loopy drugs in my mind. I stare down at the list of questions again, _what did you think of your district partner?_, and I can't. I can't do this. I won't bring visions of Otto's death into her silly make-believe world at the moment. I squeeze her shoulder and exit the room quickly.

"I give up," I snap at Dr. Ulysses in the hall, shoving his clipboard back into his chest. I'm frustrated with him, frustrated that this is necessary, frustrated that I'm in love with a girl who is completely out of her head, singing about puppies, one of whom is named _Derek_. "Good luck getting an answer out of her."

It's the last moment I think I have something better to do than deal with Annie.

* * *

><p>I return that night and she's not there. The hospital bed is empty, the sheets are neatly made and the whole place smells like antiseptic-over-vomit… or something worse. I ask the receptionist, then the jewel-skinned nurse and they only say she's been 'moved'. Where, when, why, who knows?<p>

I storm my way through restricted hallways into Dr. Linnaeus's office. He's Annie's primary doctor, the one with feather-ears, and I figure he has as good an explanation as anybody else. He's working at his desk and barely glances up when I burst in.

"Where is she?" I demand.

He frowns apologetically. "Annie's been moved down to the psychiatric wing, Mr. Odair. She's had a… a setback."

"What kind of 'setback'? Talking about the Games?" I hiss. "Did you push her?"

"They were asking her a few simple questions about her time here in the Capitol- nothing weighty- and she… she lost it, I'm afraid. Hysterics. Violently resisting assistance. Trashed her room in a fit, she had to be drugged before we could do anything."

Maybe it's true. It could be true, I don't know. I wasn't there. "Take me to her!" My head is reeling, and all I can think is _I wasn't there._

We get to the psych wing, and the rooms are different. There's a little barred window on the door, like a jail cell. Inside it's like a jail cell, too, but with padded walls, padded floors, so she can't hurt herself. She's in a padded room, in a straitjacket. They have Annie in a straitjacket.

"Get her _out of there!_" I smack the door with a fist and hear Annie scream inside. I've got to calm down, or I'm going to frighten her even more. Dr. Linnaeus unlocks the door with a click, and I fly in, kneel on the squishy-safe floor in front of her. I brush her hair back and her eyes are empty. She's gone again.

"Annie, I'm sorry," I whisper. "I'm sorry, I'm _so_…I'm sorry…" I take a shaky breath and struggle to stay in control. I start undoing the jacket, untwisting her arms. Dr. Ulysses comes to the doorway, too, and he and Dr. Linnaeus have a whispered conversation about why I know how to unlatch a straitjacket. I rub Annie's arms and plead with her, come back, please come back to me. Every time she loses it, I'm scared it's gone for good.

"Why did you… _bind_ and _gag_ her like this?" I demand, hurrying back over to the doctors, slapping the jacket down at their feet. They exchange a look and I have a horrible moment of doubt, because they're Capitol, and maybe they're working against me after all.

"She was quite irrational, Mr. Odair, a danger to herself and others. We were concerned she would… try something," Dr. Linnaeus admits.

"Try something?" I shiver and glance back at Annie, who is taking advantage of her free hands by pressing them over her ears and rocking back and forth. I remember her whispered request that first day out of the arena, and I believe them. "D-did she?" I stammer.

Another exchanged look. "She wouldn't stop asking for rope."

I start to laugh then, to their complete bewilderment. "Rope? Is that all?" I'm shaking with fading anger and relief.

Annie wants to tie knots.

* * *

><p>I explain the situation to Annie's doctors, pulling out my shoelace, demonstrating our knot-tying coping mechanism, which allows me to burn off a bit of my own anxiety. They only halfway believe me but eventually release Annie back to her old hospital room with a six-inch long snippet of rope and an even stronger prescription of the medicine that they assure me has worked wonders in mentally ill adults in all the studies. I admittedly have more faith in the rope than in the miracle drug. I return to the hospital room with them, vowing to stay until Annie comes around again.<p>

Annie doesn't come around again. We sit in her hospital bed for several hours with the new rope to play with, but her hands shake too badly to even hold it. I end up with my arms around hers, guiding her fingers through several dozen knot patterns, pulling and tightening and steadying what used to be the fastest finger work I'd ever seen.

It may not be the worst episode I've seen her have, but it's the longest, and her body seems to be suffering from it much more than usual. She's weak and shivering and her face is so, so pale, and sometimes she grits her teeth like she's fighting off an intense wave of pain. It's so hard to tell what's physical and what's mental anymore, but when she doubles over, moaning and clutching her abdomen, I'm having a harder and harder time believing that it's all in her head.

"I'm tired," Annie announces, eyes glassy, when she can't seem to hold her hands up any longer. I help her under the covers and she suddenly grimaces, wrapping both arms around her gut. A sound like misery pushes through her lips.

"You don't look like you feel so good," I whisper after she manages to unclench herself. I frown and study her, press a palm to her forehead, because I'm afraid she might really be ill on top of everything else. She's sweaty and clammy but not feverish, not that I can tell. I'm concerned, but her eyes are already sinking shut, and rest is probably the best thing for it. I give her hand a squeeze and tell her to get some sleep, flick on the lamp to chase her ghosts away for the night. She's breathing evenly before I've left the room.

Something stops me in the hallway. Call it what you will, instinct, suspicion, paranoia, but I freeze after only a few steps, come back and press my ear to the door. Sure enough, I hear a quick slap of feet on the floor and the adjoining bathroom door bangs shut, and Annie's retching.

I hurry back into the hospital room and pause for a moment outside the bathroom, remembering the morning of the Games, awkwardly waiting for her to come out, trying to give her a little privacy. But this time, the sounds don't stop after a minute, so I follow her inside. She's on her knees on the tile floor, clutching the toilet seat, shaking like a morphling and I'm not sure what to do. I try pulling back her hair, but it's too late, there's already puke in it. I start rubbing her back and she wrenches forward, throwing up again. And again. And again. I run to push the nurse call button beside her bed before hurrying back to her side, murmuring quiet assurances.

And again.

"Wow, where do you keep it all?" I joke lamely when she finally leans back, gasping for air. She presses her face against the seat and shivers, still twisting out of my reach. "Hollow leg?" I go to flush the toilet and catch a glimpse inside the bowl, out of morbid curiosity.

Blood. Annie just threw up blood in the toilet.

I've seen a lot of the stuff in my life, but the sight of blood has never scared me until this moment. Something like panic starts to claw its way up my throat, and all I can think of is those letters, the death threats in the mail. _They found her. _Those vile women found her and they've done something horrible to her and it's all my fault. I lean on the sink and shake almost as badly as Annie does.

"Finnick," she moans after a moment. "My stomach hurts."

I snap out of my terror then, realizing that the conspiracy theory doesn't actually make much sense. At all. "Yeah. I know, Annie. I know." I help Annie to her feet and half-carry her back to bed, pushing the nurse's call button a thousand more times in rapid succession even though I can already hear footsteps rushing down the hall. The diamond-skinned woman enters and starts taking Annie's vitals while I explain the situation. Her face blanches and she runs to get Dr. Linnaeus and more nurses for back-up. Annie throws up in the bed while she's gone, and I blot her face uselessly with the corner of a sheet.

"You are one sick little girl," I whisper weakly.

Little girl. Little girl. Annie's just a little girl. I snatch one of the pill bottles off the nurse's cart and examine it. This miracle drug she's on, it's for adults.

Am I the only one in Panem who remembers she is a child?

* * *

><p>I'm proud to say I only resort to screaming at Annie's doctors a couple of times during our conversation. They try to write off what she's experiencing as the result of an accidental overdose, but I grill them and learn that the medication hasn't ever been tested on anyone under twenty-one. Dr. Ulysses insists a smaller dose is the best thing for her, but I put my foot down. I don't know if the mentor really has the final authority on their victor's medical treatment, but I'm the one with the temper and the fame and the invisible trident, so I get my way on this. I end up losing the battle for no pills at all, because Annie literally can't sleep without sedation, and she needs something now for the growing ulcer in her stomach. But at least nothing will be eating her from the inside out anymore.<p>

"It's a shame." Dr. Ulysses shakes his head in frustration. "A lower dose is perfectly safe, Mr. Odair, and the only cure."

"Cure?" I spit. "You think you're going to cure her? Nobody who comes out of this hospital is cured!" I motion to myself frantically. "I'm a success story, right? Repaired by the brilliant Capitol minds here? I am a complete _basket case._ No one gets out of here except by lying to you!"

The doctors exchange a look, obviously disturbed by my outburst. "It's very easy for you to pass judgment on the methods we try," Dr. Linnaeus begins coldly. "But I got a call from President Snow himself yesterday. He's tired of waiting. The interview is scheduled for three days from now." He sighs heavily, and I see the underlying fear for the first time. "What do you in your _infinite wisdom _prescribe, Mr. Odair?"

I turn the question over in my mind. "Bring her a flute," I say simply. I'm gone before they can protest.

I push a couple of hard-backed chairs together in the waiting room and spend most of the night slumped between them, wishing I was asleep. The rest of it I spend begging to wake from nightmares.

Annie's in the arena again, but it's my arena, green and lush and boggy, sucking down around her ankles. She runs, but the other girl runs faster. She's older, taller, stronger, prettier, with eyes that glint wickedly like Shannon's, but she's that brunette from the chariot parade, the one who is not named Nicole. _Mine, _she hisses, drawing back her arm and sending that silver-edged boomerang slicing through the air, towards Annie's neck. But just before it reaches her, it transforms into my trident. And I can feel it slipping through my fingers like I threw it, but I didn't. I couldn't have. I'm stuck watching behind a screen. I can only watch. I throw up on my dashboard again, but this time, I throw up blood.

I awaken when I roll out of my chair and smack an elbow on the hard tile, drenched in sweat, extremely nauseous. I try hard not to fall asleep again, not because I have to be alert now but because I'm terrified of my own dreams. I curl up on the floor and sort of wonder if they'd let me have Annie's pills.

But I guess I do doze off because I vaguely realize I'm waking up again, not with a jolt this time but gradually, floating on something I don't recognize right away as music.

Flute music. The sea chanty. I wipe sleep-sand out of my eyes and hurry down the hall to Annie's room. I ease the door open, but it creaks like always, and I find her sitting up in bed with the silver instrument pressed to her lips. She lowers it when I enter and breaks into a smile that's all sheepishness and relief. "Hi," Annie calls softly. There are tearstains down her cheeks but she's _here_.

I smile back, gently, because she still looks very fragile. "Hi." She waves me over to sit beside her and I do, fingering her flute delicately. "That was a beautiful song, I've heard you sing it before. I… I don't remember the words anymore," I admit.

Annie squeezes her eyes closed. "I don't either." She swallows hard. "It's gone."

One of oh-so-many things lost now. She's trying not to cry, so I offer my arms for a hug, which she usually accepts. But this time, she holds on so tightly it takes my breath away.

"_Finnick_…" she chokes into my ear.

"Shhh…" I rub Annie's back, press my face into her hair. "That was scary, wasn't it? I was so scared."

"I thought I was going to die," she whispers.

I unclasp her hands from around my neck, tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "Can I tell you a secret, Annie?" I whisper back. She nods seriously. "I _really _don't want you to die."

She laughs softly, swabs at more tears. "Me, neither."

I squeeze my eyes shut tight in relief. "And I kind of think that I won't _ever_ let that happen."

Annie nods, and her face starts to flush bright red. "You're here… _all the time_," she murmurs apologetically. I know she's tired of it, being so weak, forcing me to be strong. "You… you don't have to stay." Even as she says it, she grasps both my arms like a vise.

"Yes, I do," I insist. "It's my job to see you home safely."

Annie laughs lightly. "I don't think any of _this-_" she motions to the puke-stain on the covers- "was in your job description."

I stroke another loose curl back and press my forehead against Annie's, smiling slowly, almost shyly. "Can't we just say that I _genuinely _enjoy your company?"

She laughs again, harder, and then starts crying, and I sort of do neither and both at the same time. Annie reaches for my hand, weaves her fingers through mine, and my heart starts slamming wildly in my chest because I've never, _never _been this close to anybody I care about. Part of me starts screaming for more, I need more Annie, but this, this hand-holding and forehead-resting, it's so tender and innocent and nothing like I've ever had, or even known I wanted, before. And it's so… _real_. I'm afraid to do anything to spoil the reality. So I hold onto it.

And eventually the blood pounding in my ears dies away, and I can hear a single other sound in the stillness. Another heartbeat. And in that moment, I know exactly what I fought so hard for. Annie's heartbeat.

And the ocean has to move over now, because I have a new favorite sound.

* * *

><p><strong>Dawwww! And the romance begins! Only, I'm afraid that might have been slightly more romantic in Finnick's mind than in Annie's... :P<strong>

**Thanks for reading and reviewing, everybody! And good job with Mags' quote! This is kinda fun, reviewer-interaction and all. Who has a good idea for why Finnick calls Annie chickadee? Because I honestly have no clue...  
><strong>


	27. Highlights

**Sorry for the long-ish absence, I was on vacation and... I SWAM WITH DOLPHINS! :D  
><strong>

**And now we move on from Annie's recovery and fluffiness to the psychological torment that is the Games highlights. But first, Annie, Annie, Annie, how oblivious can you be?**

* * *

><p>"<em>Listen, Annie, there's something I really should have told you <em>long _before now-"_

Annie tosses the duffel bag full of her only remaining belongings down on her bed and wanders out into the penthouse living room where I sit, lost in thought. She spins in a full circle in the middle of the floor, studying the crystal chandelier above her, fingering silk curtains by the picture window. "This is… surreal…" she whispers, brushing the smooth material against her face. She's been doing this for the entire twenty minutes since we arrived back at the training center. We've all been watching for a meltdown, triggered by the stressful environment, but Annie's shown remarkable improvement these past few days. Dr. Linnaeus had only one word of caution releasing her from the hospital this morning, because I've dealt with _nearly_ everything she can dish out.

"Annie has significant sleep disruptions."

"Ah. Nightmares?" I had asked.

"Night _terrors_," he clarified.

I nodded wisely. "We all have them."

And it really shows then, how much he doesn't understand victors. "I'd be surprised," he muttered.

_Let me back up, Annie. I just- I feel like you need to know this- so you understand what we're up against-_

"Finnick?" Annie waves a hand in front of my face playfully. "Yoo-hoo? You're worse than me, I swear."

I jerk straight up against the couch cushions and shake my head to clear it. "Sorry, Annie, you were saying?"

"I just- I don't know." She drops into the seat beside me. "It's so weird being back here again like… like nothing ever happened."

_But something _did _happen- A lot of things happened… Annie, about the interview tonight-_

"Dinnertime!" Pallindra breezes out of the dining room with a plate of steaming lobster in hand. "And it's from Four! What a _delicacy_ your district has provided!"

Annie and I exchange a look, because a poor family like hers probably slaved over that meal for us, and it sort of takes away the appetite. "I can't-" she begins.

"She can't. She's still on a special diet. For her stomach," I explain, patting my own belly region.

Annie rolls her eyes. That's a sight I didn't know I missed. "I can talk, Finnick."

"Sorry." I'm still halfway stuck in the long days and nights when she couldn't.

Pallindra sighs. "Oh, that's right, dear, I forgot. Well, don't you want something?"

"Can I just… shower?" Annie asks. "While you guys eat?"

Pallindra clucks her tongue. "Oh, your prep team will be here in an hour and they'll do it for you, sweetheart."

"Ugh!" Annie hops to her feet, running a weary hand over her face. "I'm so _sick _of being _bathed!_" She hasn't mentioned it, but I'd assume being submerged in water is one of her triggers.

"Well, go ahead, then! Run up the water bill!" Pallindra calls after Annie, but she's already stormed away down the hall. "Somebody's in a mood," she whispers to me. I just laugh, because I like seeing Annie spunky again, even if it means she's slightly less inclined to run to my arms now. I follow Pallindra into the dining room and catch Mags' eye across the table.

"More lobster for us, I guess," I murmur. She laughs, too, a gurgling sound that knocks her dentures crooked. It still pains me a bit to see her wheelchair-bound and only speaking in single-word sentences, but I've admittedly been too preoccupied with Annie to worry much about her. She understands, though. She's been too busy worrying about the two of us to get herself a second thought.

"Water," Mags says, nudging me, about ten minutes into our meal. It takes me a moment to catch her drift, but I pause and listen for a few seconds and realize I don't hear any water running.

"I'm going to check on Annie," I say, pushing my chair out from the table. I find her still standing in the hallway, a clean set of clothes tucked under one arm. She didn't make it to the bathroom, though. She's leaning against Otto's bedroom door, one hand on the doorknob, eyes glazed over. I touch her arm before she notices me.

"Hey." Annie smiles weakly. "Got lost."

"How long have you been standing here?" I ask under my breath.

She shrugs half-heartedly. "I don't know."

I see she's still watching the doorknob as if she's waiting for it to bite. I put my hand over hers and turn it, pushing the door open a crack. Annie flinches, jumps back from the doorway like I've knocked the breath out of her. But then she comes and stands beside me and we see that the Avoxes have neatly made the bed, picked up his mess off the floor. "Just the same as yours, Annie," I whisper. There's no ghost in here. Annie nods and pulls the door shut tight again.

"Do you need to talk?"

She shakes her head, because the two of us have already had so many talks about Otto in the past few days, in preparation for the interview. Annie doesn't panic at the mention of his name anymore, but I know she still doesn't believe me, that he wanted her to win as much as I did. "He wasn't that stupid," she had muttered bitterly.

I think he and I both flinched when she said it.

"Well, I need to talk to you. Do you have a minute?"

Annie nods and allows me to lead her back out to the living room with a look of dread on her face, because I'm acting too serious. She curls up on the couch, clutching a cushion to her chest. "Okay. Shoot."

I take a deep breath. "This interview you have tonight… maybe this isn't the best time to mention it, but your Capitol audience… well, they think…" She quirks an eyebrow expectantly. "They think we're involved."

"Involved in what?" Annie asks wearily.

Oh, lovely. I rub the bridge of my nose awkwardly, searching for words. "Romantically. Romantically… involved."

And then she's on her feet again. "You told them _what?_" Annie shrieks. Her eyes are blazing green fire and maybe that's something I didn't miss quite so much. "Finnick, _why _would you _say_ that?"

"I _didn't_, alright?!" I immediately regret snapping at her. She's not trying to be callous. Annie's never taken these surprises well, and she has no idea she's prodding a bruise here. I take a deep breath and speak calmly. "I didn't start the rumor, Annie. I don't know who did. But the sponsors ate it up, so… I went with it. It saved your life, okay?"_ True lie. _For her own sake, Annie can only ever know the lie side of it.

She collapses back onto the couch. "Okay. Okay, okay. I get it. I didn't mean to be- I mean, I'm… I think I'm grateful-" Annie buries her face in the pillow and groans loudly. I watch her and consider how badly my _real _confession could have been received.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that you're… _not _madly in love with me?" I ask dryly.

Annie resurfaces from the pillow for air and gives me a bewildered look. "_What?_" she gasps.

I shrug. "I just think we all need to be on the same page before we tackle this."

Annie bites her lip, apologetically, as if it's just occurred to her that she might be offending me. "Um, Finnick, I-"

My face falls and I cut her off. "I'm just kidding, Annie."

"No, I'm still sorry. It's just… you know me, I'm a horrible actor." It's true. She is. Annie turns to me with a question in her eyes. "What do you want me to do? Do I have to be in love?"

I stifle a sigh. "No, Annie, you don't. It- it doesn't really matter what you do, this whole thing is sort of riding on me. If I say I love you, it's good enough for the audience. All you have to be is surprised and flattered and not too obviously disgusted with me."

Annie frowns, speaks more softly. "I'm _not_ disgusted with you," she insists.

Well, there's a start. "Just follow my lead. And then when the parties and everything are over in the Capitol and we ride back to Four, and you settle down at home, I'll 'dump' you and they'll forget about you here." Just another temporary true love of mine, right?

_True lie._

"The sooner the better," Annie mutters into her cushion.

Ouch.

* * *

><p>"No. No, no, no, no, no, absolutely <em>not<em>."

"Mr. Odair, be reasonable." Dramas folds his arms firmly, hanger still dangling from one hand. "I feel as if you're not understanding my motif. _Fish _net_. _You're from the _fishing _district." He shoves the outfit in my face again so I get another thorough eyeful of the skimpy black bikini and corresponding body netting.

"Yes, I understand, and that's _very _clever of you, but that- that's not- it's less than she'd wear swimming!" I protest, tangling both hands in my hair.

"You district people _wear_ something when you swim?" Dramas drops the matter when he sees the dark look I'm shooting him. He fingers the material, stretches what look like racy tights but are meant to cover Annie's midriff. "Please, you haven't seen her in it yet!" he insists.

Oh, but I _have_. I guess he doesn't understand that this is the reason I am bent in half in my chair, squeezing my eyes shut, trying to flush my mind of the images he has so generously provided. If only this wasn't exactly the effect he was intending. _Unforgettable._

"Find something else," I snap. "You know you have a back-up."

"But, Mr. Odair-"

"Save it. Put her back in the mermaid dress if you have to, I don't care, but she is _not _wearing that onstage!"

"The crowd will be _wild _over this!" Dramas protests. "Don't you want them to _love_ her?"

No. No, this is absolutely the last thing I want.

"Don't. Don't argue with me." I pull Dramas up by the collar until our noses are mere inches apart. He goes pale, which provides a striking contrast to his maroon spiked hair. "We have an hour to show time, and I know you, you only need fifteen minutes to get something ready. Let's not have this conversation again."

He hesitantly agrees. I set him back down so his feet touch the floor and storm out of the room, grateful once again for the fearsome persona my trident and I have created here. I try to focus on this gratitude instead of the fact that I'm still dazed and distracted enough to walk into a wall. Well, if I can't stop thinking about Annie, I might as well go and burn a more appropriate picture of her into my mind. I rap on the door to the bathroom and a pastel-pink face pops out to greet me cheerfully, but no, I can't see her, she's not ready, they haven't quite reached perfection yet, and wouldn't I rather wait for her grand unveiling?

Because obviously, I can't handle the sight of Annie without her fingernails polished.

I am eventually whisked away by my very own prep team. I don't remember other mentors getting so fancied up for their tributes' interviews in the past, but then, I am Finnick Odair, and the crowd has certain expectations of me that they don't for, say, Brutus. Afterwards, Pallindra ushers me to the elevator and we descend down below the stage, into that dim stuffy room where I remember waiting with Mags before my interview. They've long since replaced the vases that I threw at her, cleaned her bloodstain off the floor. I collapse into a chair and try to pretend like I'm not reliving one of the worst moments of my life.

It's a little easier to do after Annie and Dramas join us. She enters first, dressed in a stylish but much more tasteful strapless gown, deep blue-gray like a storming sea. Her hair is done up and sprinkled with glitter, for sand, I suppose. There's glitter on the skirt and glitter dusting her eyelids. I'm relieved to see it's about the only make-up on her face. The hint of blush isn't quite disguising the blood drain from her cheeks.

"There's my chickadee." I gesture for Annie to sit beside me. She rubs her bare shoulders and shivers like she's freezing cold. "Nice outfit."

"Why can't I ever have sleeves?" she murmurs.

I almost laugh at her modesty. Almost. Instead, I catch Dramas' eye and nod. He gives me a haughty look and takes his seat, nose in the air.

A nervous silence settles through the room until Annie's prep team enters. They have moved on to prepping themselves, still fluffing hair and arranging eyelashes and chatting like giggly schoolgirls. Annie's shaking with fear and I dare to wrap an arm around her shoulders. She leans her head against me, and I just want her to know how beautiful she looks. But she doesn't want to hear it, not from me. Annie lets me hold her simply because I'm safe, and she's scared and she's hurting. She only clings to me when she's in pain.

I find myself wishing the pain could stop, and the clinging could continue.

Then it's time.

The giggling prep team steps onto the waiting metal plate and rises through the floor. Muffled cheers meet our ears, and I imagine them drinking in the applause desperately. Then Pallindra, oh-so-graciously waving, granting the crowd a bit of her precious time. Dramas, forgetting his resentment at my nixing his brilliant design. And then I'm on. "You come up right after me, alright?" I say, letting go of Annie. She latches her hand through mine, and her eyes flicker with something. Terror. Confusion. She seems disoriented. "Annie?" I whisper, touching her cheek.

And just as suddenly, she's here again. Annie blows out a quick breath and releases my hand. I step onto the platform. "I'll see you in just a minute." She nods and gives me a shaky thumbs-up.

The cheers of the crowd barely register in my mind. I'm still seeing the look on Annie's face and hoping that it was maybe just a fluke. I set myself on autopilot, waving and nodding and smiling on cue, and spot Caesar Flickerman perched beside the Victor's Throne. I'd always imagined Otto sitting there like a royal dignitary, not Annie, never Annie. He seemed like he could have belonged here, but she's so out of place in this world of brutality and bravado. Then I glance around at the giant plasma television screens hung from every wall, and know that Otto will have his moment of glory tonight, too. Yes, tonight we watch his head roll in high definition. My throat starts pinching shut and I have to fight off nausea as I take my seat.

Fluke or no fluke, regardless of the practice interviews, this is going to unhinge Annie. It just might unhinge me.

Then her head and shoulders are emerging out of the floor and the spotlights twinkle on her glittering gown. She's flashing newly whitened teeth and as the crowd screams her name- _An-NIE, An-NIE, An-NIE-_ I can't help but remember that a victor's smile, rising up through the stage, is the biggest lie ever told.

She smiles as she walks to the Victor's Chair and she smiles as she sits down, fingering the ornately carved wood nervously, and she smiles at Caesar as he quiets the audience with a wave of his hand.

"Miss Cresta," he begins as the hubbub dies down around them. "Miss Cresta, welcome to our show. We're so glad you're here tonight."

They'd be gladder if she was Otto or Blade or Matilda. But they'll take what they can get. Finnick Odair's girlfriend, that's a twist, too.

"Thank you, Caesar," Annie murmurs. "It's my pleasure."

"You're feeling better, I take it?" He frowns sympathetically. "We heard that you suffered a nasty concussion."

"Oh, yes, much better," she beams. "The doctors here are simply brilliant. They patched me up in no time." I don't think she realizes that the week and a half she spent semi-conscious in recovery was an eternity to the people here.

"Now, my dear Annie, _you- _you are what we call an 'unexpected victor'," Caesar says, waving finger quotes in the air. "Am I right?" The crowd affirms him, and he turns his attention back to his star. "Do you know what I mean? A six in training, I feel as if you were holding back on us!"

Annie laughs shakily. "I guess we'll never know, will we?" she says with a pretty lame attempt at a mischievous look. Caesar cracks up anyway.

"Now, tell me about your strategy in the arena. The alliance with Otto… whose idea was that?"

That's when she stops smiling. "Finnick's. It was Finnick's idea. We were both planning to go at it alone."

Caesar considers that. "Hmmm, now tell me, did you know Otto Morris? Before the Games?"

"No, sir," Annie answers quietly. "We met on the Reaping Day."

"I see. Well, could have fooled me. You two seemed close. Quicksand? You remember the quicksand?" The crowd roars. "See, that was the moment I knew- I _knew _you two were a team. Wouldn't leave each other. And when he was ill… when Otto was ill in the arena? Do you remember what you did for him?"

Annie bites her lip and nods, and her eyes just keep getting wider while the rest of her shrinks back. "It's- it's coming back to me," she whispers. There's more laughter because they don't realize she isn't joking. There's a brand new flashback starting behind her eyes. _Going._

"Took care of a boy with a high fever for two days and nights when you could have walked away. Talk about some tender moments there. Tell me, Annie, did you ever consider that… he might have cared for you?"

Annie rubs sweaty palms over her knees, then grabs both of her bare shoulders. "I didn't- I didn't consider-" she chokes out. "I didn't consider a lot of-" She buries her face in her hands and when she comes up again, I'm expecting tears. Or worse.

_Going._

"Are you alright there, Miss Cresta?"

No, of course she's not. She's completely frozen up on live television. Caesar clears his throat uncomfortably. "I understand this is a rough subject. Would- can you tell me about the climate of the arena, Annie?"

She doesn't answer. Can't, most likely. Annie's trembling from head to toe, and as all of Panem looks on, she folds herself in half in the grand Victor's Chair and clamps her hands tightly over her ears.

_Gone._

"Miss Cresta?" Caesar, for the first time in his long career, doesn't know what to do. "Shall we skip the questions, Annie? Would you rather we do that?" He lays a hand on her knee, which only causes her to jerk away and squeeze her skull tighter. The crowd's cheers quiet, and the whispering begins. Is this the big, strong champion they've been waiting for?

Her eyes fly open again, and I know in an instant that she's going to bolt. She leaps out of the chair and stands for a moment in front of Caesar, gulping in air, searching frantically for an escape route. If she runs now, her life is virtually over.

I don't know if I'm allowed to do this. I don't let myself think about it for more than a moment before I'm crossing the stage to her. The spotlight flickers off Annie's washed-out face and suddenly blinds me. Caesar lights up when he sees I've come to the rescue.

"Ladies and gentlemen, _Finnick Odair!_"

Thunderous applause. I smirk and wink at a girl in the front row. The camera catches it, and my face suddenly illuminates every screen in the auditorium. Every woman in the audience squeals, because the wink was obviously directed at them. And then I'm riding the cheers of Panem out to the Victor's Chair.

I hurry to Annie, grab her shoulders, pull her up to my chest. The audience goes absolutely berserk for Finnick Odair and his next one true love. I have just a moment to whisper to her before the din settles. "Stay with me, Annie."

"I don't know if I can." Her voice catches with tears at the end.

I sit down in the Victor's Chair and pull her into my lap. "Don't watch the show. Just watch me. Remember, follow my lead." Annie takes a deep breath and leans back against my shoulder. Her hand reaches down and grasps blindly for mine.

"Just hang on," I tell her. "Squeeze as hard as you have to."

And then my face fades away on the screens, and the Game highlights begin.

It's almost possible to go numb during the opening, the recap of the Reapings, watching the Careers volunteers, the ashen-faced kids from Three called, Annie trembling as she stepped forward. I catch sight of myself onstage with my arm wrapped around the blonde girl, wearing a complete look of indifference, and remember how much easier numb used to be.

It gets harder when Willow's name is called in Eleven, and she mounts the stage with that same even mask she wore in the arena. Somewhere in the crowd, a hysterical little girl of maybe thirteen, no obvious relation, runs forward and screams, waves a hand around. A volunteer. The upbeat soundtrack mutes long enough for us to hear Willow yell at the crying child, "You are _not_ going. You're not!"

I turn Annie's head toward me during the bloodbath. Seeing Otto kill makes me want to hide my eyes, too. Just sitting in this throne, listening to the frenzied crowd, brings back a flood of unwelcome memories. My first moments of celebrity on this stage. The breakdown backstage. A knife of betrayal in my back. Seeing myself, on that screen, larger than life, so brave, so bold, so beautiful as I slaughter my competition. And worst of all, hearing them _cheer me on_.

Annie stifles a little squeak just as the battle is ending. I glance down and see that her fingertips are turning a bright shade of purple. It's obvious that she's not the only one holding on for dear life. I quickly loosen my grip. "Sorry," I murmur. She just gives me a kind of dazed smile.

_Stay with me, Annie._ Because honestly, I'm not sure I could get through this without her, either.

We watch Annie and Otto flee through the forest. The Careers build the dam that inadvertently allowed her to win. Then the boy from Six, the boy from Eight both have long death scenes. It probably shouldn't surprise me, how much I am featured in the video highlights from the get-go. I knew there were cameras in the Mansion, but I assumed that was only for the live broadcast of the Games. I've never once seen a mentor in the recap. But there I am on the first night of the Games, sitting up in my swivel chair until dawn, muttering curses at any threat to Annie. Her eyebrows shoot up, watching me watch her, and I realize she's never seen my side of things before.

"Rough job?" Annie whispers in my ear. I nod, and the crowd goes wild simply because we're having a private conversation.

There's quicksand, and then Otto's coughing and covered in spots, and Annie's dabbing his sweaty forehead, quietly reassuring him. This time around, since I'm not worried for both of their survival, I'm able to appreciate the more tender side of those few days. Annie's patience is astounding, really, and the way Otto comes to look at her after he succeeds in swallowing his pride… like she's beautiful. Like she's his hero. And then he's well and pleading with her not to split the team up, he doesn't want to leave her. He doesn't want to lose her.

The river dries up, and they go out together. I reach up and wipe a tear off Annie's cheek, turn her toward me, cup both hands on the sides of her face and, less obviously, over her ears. _Don't look don't look don't look-_

She squeezes her eyes shut and mouths, _how about now?_

_Not yet. Keep them closed. Don't look._

I think what isn't shown says more, in this case, than what is. We see Otto's gory death in full, Annie's pupils shrink, me hollering at her to run for her life. We _don't_ see me vomit all over my equipment or curse Seneca Crane, we don't see Annie stumble and double over in the woods from the trauma she's just witnessed. We see her kill Shannon in a dramatic twist but we don't hear her scream like it ripped her apart. They show her running to hide in that cave, terrified and alone and confused, but not her scratching her skin off in a frenzy.

_Can I look yet?_

_If you want to._

I let Annie watch herself not eat, not drink, not talk, not cry. Her mouth hangs slightly agape, she doesn't remember this part at all, more than likely. And then I'm shown again, curled up in the swivel chair in my cubicle, eyes trained on her all day and all night, teeth gritted with the effort of holding myself together. Until I really can't anymore. I start weeping silently onscreen. Then not-so-silently. The crowd sighs sympathetically, and it's obvious from thestartled, confused drop of Annie's jaw that she's _really_ never seen this side of the story before. I've never seen it like this either, but I lived through it, and I know that they've cut the scene short because my emotion is almost uncomfortably raw. The girl from Three gets extended coverage of her bleeding to death, but a horrid thing like _grief_ must be censored, it's much too upsetting to watch.

Still, it's enough of a taste of what really happened. A couple of things flit across Annie's face- surprise, confusion, pity- before she composes herself, twists her mouth into a frown and glances down at me. "You're very good," she whispers, a bit rattled, because my acting just doesn't seem like acting. I wink at her with a classic Finnick-smile and whisper, "The best." She rolls her eyes, and the Capitol cheers. Aren't we just precious in our flirting?

I send Annie pepper and the two of us have a good laugh at that, and we must really be adorable because the scattered cheers begin to melt together into a single word, a chant that grows in intensity with every passing moment.

"Kiss… Kiss… Kiss! Kiss!"

I scan the sea of ecstatic painted faces, so caught up in this "romantic" moment. Completely oblivious to the miserable state they've put Annie in this evening. Doesn't she have enough to deal with already? I glance up at her casually and see that she's flushed bright red. But she manages to meet my eye and gives me a weak smile.

Well, I told her to follow my lead, didn't I? She can't exactly resist me here in front of a live audience. There she is capturing Willow onscreen, it's a good time for a distraction. I reach up and wrap both her arms around my neck, cradle her face in both hands, pull her in close to me.

I hear the crowd moan in disappointment when my lips brush against her cheek. Finnick Odair has never denied them a splendid show like this. But the Capitol has already taken away Annie's privacy, her safety, her soundness of mind. The least I can do is leave her her innocence.

I brush a strand of hair out of her eyes and drop my hands to my sides. She doesn't edge away from me, though. Annie leans in closer, hugging my neck tightly, and buries her face in the crook of my neck. I feel her cheek pressed against my skin, still soft and warm with embarrassment. Just how it felt under my lips.

It's a strange moment to feel deliriously happy. But I do.

It _was_ a good distraction, really, because we missed most everything with Adrian and Willow, and even now that I'm watching the flood sweep into the arena, I'm still sort of glowing and my mind is elsewhere. The highlights end with a dramatic shot of Annie diving under the waves, not with her unconscious and the hazard-suited people diving for her. Lies, lies, lies, everybody's telling lies, and mine is the only one that is true.

President Snow comes out on stage, then, and I gently shove Annie off my lap and over to him. I graciously step back out of the spotlight, but she seems dazed and disoriented without me beside her. When he sets the golden laurel crown on her head, Annie immediately pulls it off and studies it, a bit dizzily. The president leans over with an acidic smile and I see his lips move beside her ear.

"_Better keep that on, dear."_

It's the only reason they've kept her alive, after all.

* * *

><p><strong>Well, I have many concerns about this chapter- it's my longest yet, again, and I'm afraid it's both too long and too rushed. I know some of the tributes didn't get a proper send-off in the highlights, and Matilda wasn't mentioned at all (I'm still trying to cook up a proper good-bye for her). But I'd appreciate some feedback! :) Excited for the blossoming romance? :D<strong>


	28. Banquet

**Here's what happens when I go to write a chapter. I look at the plot outline, weeks ago, think to myself, "Oh, I don't have nearly enough material for that chapter, I've got to add this and this and this," I do, and... here we have the longest chapter yet. Again! Oh, well. :)**

**So this chapter was incredibly fun to write... And fun to quote around my house! :D Finnick may seem a little out-of-character, only in that he's not his usual smooth self with Annie, but I'm asking you to remember that he's considerably younger here than in the books. He knows a lot about girls, but he's VERY new to the idea of actually loving one. So bear with him, he'll get it figured out. :)**

* * *

><p>Immediately after the highlights end, Team District Four is loaded into a fancy limousine and shipped to President Snow's mansion for the ritzy Victor's Banquet. It infuriates me that they're putting Annie through so much more of this nonsense yet tonight. She's hanging on but so obviously miserable. I squeeze her shoulders in the safety of the car and whisper, "You're doing so well. Just a little longer. It'll be easier here, nothing but music and food."<p>

She gives me a look of disbelief. "I can't control it, you know," she whispers back. "The flashbacks. The… craziness. It's always right there, beneath the surface." Her voice trembles with something new. Intense, concentrated anger. "I _hate it,_" Annie hisses. "I'm so afraid I'm going to slip again. If I go, I'm _gone_."

"I won't let anything happen. I'm gonna watch you, Annie. Every second," I promise, then hesitate, raising my eyebrows mischievously. "Like a hawk."

Her lips twitch. "A hawk watching a chickadee. That's comforting."

"And dancing with one… if you don't mind," I add, almost shyly, before I remember that we're still in public, and I've never been shy a day in my life. "Can I have first dance?"

The limo lets us out on the President's front step and the door is yanked open for us. People crush in around the car and cameras start snapping pictures, and Annie freezes for a long moment, taking in the utter bizarre chaos in the crowd, the dyes and feathers and six-inch eyelashes. She turns back to me with wide eyes.

"Absolutely," she whispers.

It turns out that Annie's not the most focused of dance partners. We barely shake off the reporters and get out to the floor, and then she's grabbing my arm and pointing out pretty things in the ballroom, transfixed by the light glinting off the chandeliers, casting diamond patterns on the walls. It's funny, I always thought only a shallow person would ever be able to appreciate any of the Capitol's luxuries, but maybe Annie can just find beauty anywhere. I tease her about it, good-naturedly, but the truth is I'm thrilled and sort of baffled by the childlike curiosity she's showing.

"What?" Annie mutters with a sheepish smile. "I like shiny things."

I watch her eyes light up as she strokes a satin tablecloth, sniffs a bubbling pot of soup, and I think I like shiny things, too.

She's oblivious to the cameras clicking around her, and it's a good thing, because her excited reaction to the Capitol's extravagance isn't the least bit forced. Every now and then, someone will try to come up and introduce himself as one of the sponsors that saved Annie's life, but her face will go blank and she'll study the intricate paintings on the ceiling. It doesn't matter that she doesn't talk, the people here are plenty adept at dominating a conversation, but she does get some strange looks when she tunes in, ten minutes into a monologue, and says, _Hi, nice to meet you._ I laugh like she's some very clever jokester and steer her away from her bewildered fans.

She's still smiling, which is the most important thing.

People come to talk to me, too, a lot of young women in their ridiculous little frilly dresses and poofy hair and swollen lips. They congratulate us on our victory and eye me like I'm candy, but I don't let go of Annie's arm. She is my date, according to the press and according to the way I'm clinging to her. They can look but they can't touch, for the moment. And they know it.

In addition to the throngs of the Capitol's finest citizens, there are Gamemakers here who insist on conversing with us. I think the thing that frightens me most about these people is that they don't seem cruel or bloodthirsty at all, in person. They like to stand around with their drinks and merrily compare notes on the arena's schematics and size and difficulty to build, like it was a particularly challenging jigsaw puzzle they were proud to have completed.

Annie never clues in to what they're talking about, thankfully, because in her mind, nobody laughs and jokes while discussing an arena. Still, she's squinting at them like she's trying to place their faces, and I'm afraid she's going to flashback to training. Besides, I've just spotted a cluster of mentors- Johanna and Haymitch and Chaff and Seeder- on the other side of the room that I would much rather be chatting with. But there's one Gamemaker who seeks me out specifically, and instead of rambling on about his prestigious position, he's asking all sorts of strange questions about me. How much free time I have in the Capitol, how I spend it, do I have a hobby, do I _need _a hobby? It sounds like he's either trying to sell me something, or set me up with another date, and I'm not at all interested in either. Then he asks me when was the last time I talked to Johanna Mason, and I use that as an excuse to break away and go introduce Annie. I can see Johanna watching us from across the room, so I glance behind me at the Gamemaker and mouth, "_freak_". I'm surprised to see her frown.

"Annie, these are a few of my friends. They helped me out during the Games," I explain as we join them.

"Congrats on not dying," Johanna tells her flatly.

"Thank you," she murmurs.

I give Johanna a death glare. Then Chaff and Haymitch shake our hands, and Seeder pulls me into a tight hug and whispers in my ear, asking how Mags is and how I am and how Annie is recovering. I nod and tell her we're about as well as we can be, considering the circumstances, but it's unbelievably better to be back together again. Seeder beams and tells Annie how pretty she is in her stormy blue gown. Annie blushes, whispers in awe about the lights and the food and everything she's never experienced before.

"We can show you a good time here," Johanna says with a snort, and then mutters under her breath, "I bet she's never been drunk…"

I'm about ready to give her a piece of my mind, but Annie just wanders away and starts sampling the delicacies at the dessert table. The moment she's out of hearing range, the other mentors close in around me, almost protectively. Haymitch grabs my arm and eyes the Gamemakers. "Did you thank your good friends over there for that flood?" There's a bitter edge to his voice, and I wonder if he actually resents me, because Annie lived and Adrian died. Then he adds in an even lower growl, "Because they're paying for it."

"Really?" I hiss back. "Seneca Crane-"

"Got off the hook. Shifted the blame off himself. He's executive, and he ordered a volcanic eruption. Tech team screwed up with the dam, got the whole lot of them fired yesterday." His bleary eyes soften, ever so slightly. "You just need to know that she wasn't supposed to win. She's a great kid, she's adorable, she didn't deserve to die, but they didn't want her to live."

I nod. I sensed it, deep down, but hearing the thought spoken aloud makes me cringe. Still, she's as safe as possible now. Her victor status protects her, accidental or otherwise. Annie calls excitedly from the next table over for me to come see something, and Haymitch yawns. "Well, I'm gonna go act like I'm wasted," he slurs, and stumbles away with his liquor bottle in hand.

"Finnick, _this_…" Annie holds up a plate full of some pastry in my face. "Is the most _incredible _thing I've ever tasted." She's so oblivious to our conversation that it's almost concerning. "Taste it! You've got to try this!" I take a bite and admittedly don't get as thrilled about it as she does.

There's a commotion a couple of tables down then, dishes crashing to the floor, the satin tablecloth pulled crooked. People gather around, murmuring to themselves, and then whispering, gasping, and someone's screaming, "Call a doctor! Call a doctor _now!_" All heads in the room whip around and catch a glimpse of the portly gentlemen, slumping to the floor, face ashen, eyes frozen open but lifeless. Beside me, Annie gives a blood-curdling shriek. She grabs my arm, and her nails dig in so hard they break skin.

"What happened?" I demand over Annie's frantic wailing. Many people are turning away from the unconscious man, apparently more troubled by their victor's outburst.

"Some guy just _died!_" Johanna hollers back, and I can't tell if her tone is more shocked or gleeful. I wrench out of Annie's grasp and push through the crowd to get a better look. The man is Capitol, sure, but I'm remembering being in this banquet hall a month before, watching Mags collapse, and those agonizing minutes when I shouted for help, _somebody help_, and nobody did. I shove a couple of twittering observers out of the way- they're horrified, but this is also a very juicy topic for discussion- and check his pulse. No pulse. Not breathing. I'm almost positive there's nobody else here who knows how to do this except Annie, and I can hear her still screaming hysterically behind me. I'm not about to let her watch another person die.

I pull off the man's suit coat and start pumping his chest. "Seeder!" I shout. "_Haymitch!_ Get Annie!" I count off the compressions and pause. Nothing. Start again. "Get Annie _out of here!_" I listen to his heart not beat. Still nothing. I roll my eyes. Mouth to mouth. Here goes. Cameras start clicking rapid-fire behind me, and people are hissing about this fascinating new development. It's just so _hilarious_ that Finnick Odair appears to be kissing a Gamemaker.

Oh, he's a Gamemaker? Well, we _certainly_ can't afford to lose one of those. I swallow my disgust, wishing I was the unconscious one.

It's less than five minutes before the paramedics arrive. They took a good twenty minutes to retrieve Mags, but who's counting? I step aside with a revolting taste in my mouth, panting for the breath I just gave away, and watch as the white-suited professional positions paddles over the man's wide chest and flicks the machine on. His eyes roll around after a couple of shocks.

"Where am I?" he moans, and the entire crowd sighs in relief.

"You're at a party," the paramedic explains calmly. "You had a heart attack and went into cardiac arrest." He gestures to me. "This man saved your life."

The man's eyes open wider, focus on me with some great effort. "Thank you," he manages.

My smile is icy. "Anytime," I hiss so only he can hear. "I don't enjoy watching people die."

The look he gives me is absolutely and completely perplexed. I don't know whether it's because he was just revived from cardiac arrest or simply because nobody's ever said that to him before. Neither one of us has time to say any more before he's loaded onto a stretcher and taken out to the waiting ambulance. The crowd is ecstatic, and I have to admit that I'm pretty pleased with my heroic self. It's the very first time in my life I've been cheered on for doing something noble.

Then I catch sight of something that almost stops _my_ heart.

A wine glass lying on its side, right where the Gamemaker fell. The bright red liquid is spattered across the floor, and the puddle is so big, he couldn't have drunk more than a mouthful. But I guess that was enough. The metallic taste in my mouth is threatening to strangle me, and I feel a chill creeping up my spine. I don't have to turn around to know that President Snow has just entered his own ballroom. And he's watching me. Maybe to see if I'm going to keel over now, too.

_Who did I just save? _And from _what?_

I seriously consider running for the bathroom with a shot of emetic so I can cleanse myself of whatever was in that drink, just in case. But that's when I catch sight of Haymitch, and he doesn't have Annie with him. I grab his collar and demand to know why he left her. He wordlessly points to the opposite side of the dance floor, where Seeder is knelt, lifting a long tablecloth, apparently coaxing and pleading with someone beneath the table. I hurry over and grab her shoulder. "How is she?"

Seeder looks up at me with saddened eyes and holds up the tablecloth so I can see for myself. Annie's curled up against the wall, arms wrapped around herself, shaking so hard her teeth chatter. Somehow she always seems so cold when she's afraid. Her mind is obviously a million miles away, reliving something more horrible than I can imagine.

Of course. She just saw me give CPR, and isn't that what didn't save Adrian? I've inadvertently hurt her, again. I crawl under the table beside her, rest a hand on her arm gently. I've learned to test first, to see if touch will panic her, but she's just non-responsive now. I suppose it's preferable to the hysteria.

"Come here, Annie." She doesn't move, but I sit next to her and wrap an arm around her shoulders, pull her close to me. "Come back, Annie. I miss you." I'm running fingers through her hair, coaxing her quietly, because this is the only thing I know to do. I hear a little sniffle and look up to see Seeder wiping her eyes as she watches us.

"Does that help?" she asks with a watery, knowing smile.

"Sometimes."

The smile widens. "Do you need a minute?"

"If you don't mind," I murmur. Seeder reaches down and hands me a crumpled paper bag- "Just in case," she says with a wink- and drops the tablecloth, disappearing. I hold Annie tighter, whisper in her ear, kiss her hair softly, anything to bring her around again. It can't hurt, after all, it's just the two of us here and her presence is questionable at best. I press my lips to her temple, just over her glassy left eye, and of course, that's the moment she comes around again and gives me a bewildered look.

"Did you just kiss my head?" Annie asks, voice ragged like the possibility is exhausting to even consider.

I bite my lip, realizing how _bizarre _this must seem to her. "I… may have. I was trying to distract you." Annie groans and rubs her forehead, eyes flickering as if she's still fighting off some troubling memories.

"Didn't work, I take it." I brush back her hair to get a better look at her, lower my voice. "Do you want to tell me what you see?"

Her answer is almost inaudible. "I could have saved him…"

It takes me a moment to realize she's not referring to the Gamemaker who just had the heart attack. "No, Annie. He was too big. It was too late. You did everything you could."

"I don't know," she whispers, words heavy with an all-too-familiar guilt. "I was tired. I was scared. I could have done more."

"Annie." I grab her arm, force her to look me in the eye. "Listen to me. You want to know who's responsible for Adrian dying?" She swallows hard. "_Those men out there._" I point out from underneath the table. "Nobody else. Nobody else, do you hear me?" My voice trembles with the strain of keeping quiet. She nods, but I think it's only to placate me.

There's a clang above us as somebody opens a pot on the table. A pair of feet pause in front of us, and a confused, unfamiliar tattooed face suddenly appears beneath the tablecloth. "What are you doing down there?" the stranger questions.

"What do you _think _we're doing?" I snap, jerking the tablecloth down again, obscuring our faces. The feet hesitate in front of the table for a moment, then slowly turn and wander away, wondering exactly what kind of dirty deed is usually performed beneath refreshment tables at formal banquets.

Annie's still watching the Gamemakers across the dance floor thoughtfully. "Did that man live?" she whispers, like she's afraid to hear the answer. Only Annie could bring herself to care after whatever torment her mind has just put her through.

I nod. "Yes, Annie, he's breathing again, and he's going to the hospital. He's gonna be fine." Not if the President really has it in for him, but I guess I don't know that for sure. "You can just forget about him."

"I can't. That's the funny thing," Annie chokes in a tone that tells me whatever she's about to say won't make either of us laugh. "You want to know a secret?"

I nod quickly, and she takes a deep breath. "I have a photographic memory. At least, I did, since I was a little kid. My head is like a camera."

I frown. "You… you take pictures? In your mind?"

"Yeah. I don't forget things. Books I read, people I meet." Annie bites her lip and meets my eyes then. She's shaking. "I've never forgotten a face. I don't forget _anything_ that I see."

My stomach drops. That explains a lot. The vivid flashbacks, the sitting up all night in the arena, instead of watching the day play out behind her eyelids. I know my ability to forget things has always been one of my biggest sources of comfort. "Well," I begin lamely, fingering one of her curls. "Bet you're great in school."

"Top of my class," Annie whispers, staring into the distance. Her voice is hollow, because what good is that memory doing her now? I don't know if she'll be able to attend school again, and even then, her mind isn't so strong anymore. For some reason, this thought makes my throat tighten more than anything. She can't be the same person she was.

"Should we go take some happier pictures, then?" I offer huskily.

She glances up at me with a weak smile. "Can't we stay under the table? I like it under the table."

I do, too. "Yeah, for a little bit. But people are probably starting to miss us." I tilt her chin towards me. "We are the stars of the show, you know."

Annie laughs lightly, but immediately grows serious again. "Do you always kiss my head when I'm… gone?" she asks hesitantly.

Thank goodness I can't blush. "Oh, no, that was definitely the first, and probably the last time," I confess quickly.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

I don't like that promise.

She leans her head on my chest, and there's a silence that we don't break for a long time. "Speaking of promises…" Annie's eyes flicker playfully up at me. "I promised you a dance, didn't I?"

That one is considerably better.

We get down on our hands and knees and poke our heads out from under the tablecloth. A dancing couple nearly trips over me as I crawl out onto the ballroom floor, pulling Annie out after me. The entire room full of dancers suddenly halts, skirts still swishing, and there are a hundred pairs of eyes on us. A classical orchestra plays what I think is some sort of a waltz, and I bow low and offer my hand in a grand sweeping gesture. Our eyes meet, and her cheeks go bright pink when she grasps it.

Yes, Annie, take a picture of this, please.

One hand in hers. One hand on her waist. My eyes on her face, hers watching the ground steadily, as if she's carefully timing each step. I know she doesn't have to, though. She's floating. Dancing, dancing is something we know in Four. Usually we skip and jump and clap to the music, usually we switch partners every few measures, but sometime we choose a person to hold for an entire song. We're twirling across the floor and trying to find adequate words to express how grateful we are that the other person is here. There are jealous Capitol eyes on us, on me, but I don't have a moment of attention to spare. They can write whatever they want on their perfume-scented stationary. There's nothing and nobody that exists here except Annie and I.

"Annie, do me a favor," I say in a low voice, after we have quietly complimented one another's waltzing skills. "Don't- don't ever dye your skin pink."

"What?" she bursts out, smothering a giggle.

"I mean it. Not that the blush isn't cute, but… all over is a no-no. No rhinestones implanted, either, you'll glare the cameras," I joke.

"Isn't that all the rage here?" Annie asks, eyebrows shooting up. "Aren't these the most _attractive_ fashions?"

I pretend to gag and she starts laughing so hard she loses her timing completely and steps on my foot. "They scare you, too?" she whispers gleefully.

I nod slowly. "Yeah, but not nearly as much as you do."

Smooth, _smooth_ Finnick Odair. I don't see that coming until it's out of my mouth, and don't realize it's true until several seconds after.

Annie's jaw drops. "I _scare _you?" she hisses in amused disbelief. I don't think Annie's ever scared a soul in her life.

"Not- _scare,_ exactly." I laugh lightly. "It's just that you… you're unpredictable. I don't know what to do with you."

_I don't know what to do with the fact that you're the only reason I'm sane and the only reason I almost wasn't, and don't you know, Annie, you're the only person I have ever cried for, and I have _no idea _what to do with that._

"Unpredictable?" Her eyes narrow. "Yeah, well, it'd probably be easier if I quit screaming and hiding under tables, wouldn't it?" Annie mutters, trying to be sarcastic and only succeeding in sounding wounded.

"No!" I burst out. "That's not it at all. You _know_ I've never been scared off by that. That's the part I _can_ predict_. _It's just… if you were Capitol, and if you had tattoos all over your…" I cut that statement off at Annie's warning glare. "All over your _body_, I would know exactly what to say to you right now and exactly how to be, and I would never, ever worry about hurting you."

_Because you wouldn't be real then, and you are, you are so real, and real people break and bleed and I can't stand it when you're hurting._

Annie's lost her shyness somewhere along the line. She's watching my face now as if it's transparent to her. I honestly think she can see into my soul, and that scares me more than anything. I haven't cleaned in there in a while.

"Maybe…" she begins slowly. "Maybe you should just stop worrying for a song or two, and we can dance. Just dance with me, okay?"

"Okay," I agree quietly. I take the hint. I'm talking far too much.

The next song is even slower and the only skill required is stepping in a small circle, moving as one. Then Annie's head is on my shoulder, my cheek is pressed against her hair. My arm slips around behind her back and maybe, maybe that's okay now. We can just dance, after all.

She is so _very _close to me.

"Finnick," Annie whispers into my suit coat. "I want to leave."

"Me neither," I murmur vaguely. I'm very caught in the moment and she's so warm next to me. There's a word forming hazily in my head. _Home. _That's one I haven't used in a long time. I think I want to take a picture of this forever.

"I said I _do _want to leave," Annie hisses urgently. "Soon. _Please_."

Her request registers correctly this time. I grab her shoulders and pull her away from me. She's blanched until her face is almost gray, and I am horrible for not noticing until now. "Annie…" I touch her cheek. "What's wrong? Tell me what's wrong."

"I'm exhausted," she murmurs, but I see it's so much more than that. She must be running on empty. I follow her glassy gaze across the room and lock on the blood-red punch shining in its bowl, the drops splattered on the ground around it. Apparently we haven't been having the same daydreams.

"Yeah," I mutter, clearing my throat sheepishly. "Yeah, we can go." I check the time on the antique wall clock. It's a quarter 'til ten, and these parties are guaranteed to last all night, or until everyone is wasted, whichever comes first. But I won't let them push her any further.

This is going to take some creative thinking.

"I can get you out of here," I whisper. "I have to go thank our hosts first. You stay right here." I start to walk away and then hesitate, turning back to her. "Do me another favor, chickadee, don't ever ask me what I said."

She nods and I hurry off, breaking into a crowd of drunken Capitol men.

_Well, we're off, nice to meet you, you have our eternal gratitude for your sponsorship._

_So soon, so soon? Where's the wild Finnick Odair?_

_Wild Finnick Odair? He's reserved tonight, sorry. Annie's been so busy we haven't had any private time yet, if you KNOW WHAT I MEAN._

Wink wink. Wink. Jokes and comments I don't want to repeat. Things I wish I wasn't even saying. I make my way over to the Gamemakers, important Capitol officials, assuring myself that I can get away with blowing off this party. I am Finnick Odair, after all, so I've been told.

I'm pretty sure I hate Finnick Odair.

I tell my story again, laying it on thick enough to make even Capitol people blush. Then President Snow's Secretary, that important man who I remember nothing about except that he's kin to not-Nicole, hands me a glass of punch and an envelope. "For the lovely Miss Cresta," he says in a wheedling tone. "From the President's own desk."

"Oh. Thank you." My heart starts slamming wildly without my consent. It's nothing. A form letter of congratulations, that's all. Still, I trace a thumbnail along the seal. "May I?"

He starts to object. "It's a private-"

"She can't read," I hiss. "From the wharf, you know. We don't want the press to hear tale. You know. Hush hush." He nods hesitantly and I tear in, pull out the fancy stationary, sipping from my glass nonchalantly.

_Congratulations to our dear Annie Cresta! In light of the honor you have received in being crowned victor of the 70th Annual Hunger Games, you are hereby invited to take up permanent residence in our fair Capitol-_

I choke and barely avoid spewing my mouthful of punch all over the Secretary.

"Are you alright, Mr. Odair?" he asks as I try to swallow around the lump of fear in my throat. I nod and turn away, still coughing and gagging and trying to get my breath back. A Capitol attendant appears beside me, but I wave him away, holding up the letter again. My eyes sweep the page anxiously, skimming until I reach the inevitable list of benefits of Capitol life.

"…_food, fun, entertainment, and the pleasure of socializing with the Capitol's elite…"_

No. This isn't happening. I set down my glass and lean against the table for support. This is wrong. The timing is all wrong. It's too soon. I had two years, I mentored at two Games before I was 'invited'. But then, I was so young. Still, even Johanna, who won at eighteen, didn't receive her letter until after her Victory Tour.

I take a moment to compose myself before turning back to the Secretary. "What a most gracious invitation," I say as politely as I can manage. "But Annie's still recovering. She'll have to refuse, at least for the time being."

Or forever, or over my dead body. Take your pick.

He frowns at me, because this question only has one answer. And I've answered wrong. "Excuse me?"

"You can talk to her doctors. She's- still- recovering," I repeat, slowly and firmly, as if he's very dim or hard-of-hearing. "She needs to go home."

The Secretary's scowl deepens, and we study each other for a long moment. When he speaks again, the temperature of his voice has dropped twenty degrees. "Well, I don't think you are in a position to speak for Miss Cresta, are you, Mr. Odair?"

But I have to. I can't give her this letter. She couldn't handle knowing that there are still jackals after her, even outside of the arena. _I _can't handle it.

"I am her mentor. I got her out of the Games alive, and she's entrusted me with making decisions for her while she's ill. Do you hear me? Any request for her time and attention comes through _me_ first!"

I keep my voice low but it doesn't matter, everyone around us has stilled to silent observation. Maybe it's the expression on my face, the fire I feel burning in my eyes, or the fact that I might be trembling slightly with rage. One table down, President Snow is chatting with all his personal aides and staff, and in the stiff lull in conversation they have turned toward us. Our eyes meet for the briefest of moments, and his are always beady like a snake's, but now they look ready to strike. I hold his gaze, wanting him to see exactly what happened. It was me that refused, not Annie. She wouldn't fight, but I would. She can't be punished, but I can.

I swallow hard. "Thank you for the offer," I push out, tucking the envelope back into the Secretary's hand. "But we need to be going."

The Secretary is speechless. It's Snow who answers with the coldest of cheery smiles. _"You two have fun, now."_

I don't remember who but somebody, somebody told me once that his breath smells like blood. I have a sinking suspicion that President Snow can punish whoever he wants.

I force myself to walk slowly over to Annie- one step for each beat of the crawling waltz tempo. She's wrapped up in staring in some abstract painting, tilting her head like she's trying to pick out shapes in the clouds at home. I grab her arm, startling her. "We're going, Annie. _Now_," I hiss.

She glances back at the painting almost longingly. "I-"

"Now!" I snap, jerking her a little too roughly toward the front doors. I feel the eyes following us across the room like always, but I realize now, they aren't all watching me. They're watching Annie, too. They didn't want her to win, but since she did…

There are so many suggestive good-byes as we part- "Have a good time!" is a common one, with a knowing smile and a quirk of the eyebrows. I want us out of here. Now. Out of this mansion. Out of this city. I don't ever want us to come back.

"You're in for a treat," a green-skinned woman tells Annie as we make our way out to our waiting limo. I give her an icy smile and pull Annie away down the steps.

"Why does everybody keep saying that?" she murmurs in my ear.

I do something even more despicable then. I lie to her. It may be the first time ever, directly, although I've certainly kept back a lot of truth. "Probably because I grabbed some of that pastry you love." I hold up Seeder's paper bag, which I crammed full of the stuff. "You know, the peach kind? Want some?"

"No thanks," Annie says wearily. "I'm not hungry."

"More for me," I mutter dryly, because my appetite is long gone, too. An Avox attendant opens the limo door and we slide across the leather seatbacks. There are still people waving at us and crowding around the curb, and some man with angry red tattoos crawling up his neck flashes straight-white teeth in a crooked smile.

And he _winks at her._

My blood boils and I slam the door in his face. They can't have her. They can't. I'd die first. I _will die _first. I dare anybody to doubt it.

But somehow I know that I won't be given the option. The Capitol can't lose me. But they can spare plenty of others. How many people have I just put in danger? Will they get killed if I fight for her?

Her _family…_

We're alone in the back of the limousine when the thought strikes. The fury seeps out of me and I slump back in my seat, burying my hands in my hair, frustrated and miserable and so very _stuck._ I don't notice Annie watching me, studying my face.

"You're so pale," she observes after a long moment, resting a hand on my arm.

I manage a small smile, fully expecting her to tell me how awful I appear at the moment. I know I'm a mess. "Thank you," I mutter.

"Finnick, oh, you're… you're shaking." Her brow knits together in concern. "Do you not feel well?"

"I'm tired," I murmur, because Annie is the sort of person you can admit that to. But I can't tell her why. I can't tell her anything. I drop my head into my hands and stifle a groan. "Annie, I'm so _tired_."

I try not to seem shocked when she reaches over and starts rubbing my back silently, tracing tiny circles between my shoulder blades. Doesn't she know that isn't a gesture of indifference? Doesn't she know it makes me think she cares? Annie's made it clear that she has no interest in me, but she's genuinely trying to ease my pain. "You have the worst job in the world, do you know that?" she whispers with a grim smile. Then her voice turns as soft as her eyes. "But it's over now. It's okay. It's over."

Annie doesn't know the half of my job or that it's far from being over when I finish mentoring. But I'm so afraid she's going to be finding out soon. I glance up at her face hovering beside mine, and she's so gentle and innocent and so… _tender_. Completely not what the Capitolites have ever wanted. Never what I wanted either, but now it's hard to imagine wanting anybody but Annie. It must drive these people crazy, trying to figure out what I see in her. I almost smile at the irony, despite everything.

That's when it hits me, exactly what I have done, so hard I instantly pale another two shades. Wouldn't they give anything to find out what I see in her? Of course they would. They only want Annie because they think I have her.

And what's good enough for Finnick Odair is good enough for the Capitol.

* * *

><p><strong>And Finnick realizes that what protected Annie once is now putting her in danger. The suspense and bumpy romance here are really fun to write, how is it to read?<strong>


	29. Remembering

**Wow. A week and a half, it's been a while. Sorry about that, things are kind of hectic with school starting and all... I'd like to promise that it won't ever happen again but... that might turn out to be a Finnick promise. :P So thank you to all my loyal reviewers for not forgetting me!**

**This chapter will probably be edited later... I felt the need to have something up, it's a little random but I enjoyed! Hopefully you will, too!**

* * *

><p>That night is long. The nights are always the longest.<p>

They warned me never to try to wake her. Not during the nightmares. _Night 'terrors', _I correct myself, although I don't see what difference it makes. Of course I don't ever listen to Annie's doctors.

Pallindra is still out at the Banquet partying- she will be furious when she learns we left early- and Mags is being monitored overnight at the hospital, just as another precaution. Annie and I have free reign of the place, but we are both so sick and tired that we crash as soon as we get back to the apartment, retire to our rooms with no thought of peach cobbler or any other sort of treat. I'm not asleep when it happens, though, I'm mentally reviewing that neat, crisp Capitol note and its manifold implications. Snow's eyes still watch me in the darkness, and I know that like a real snake, he can sense the heat that's burning me up inside.

The terror is almost a welcome distraction, at first. I'm in Annie's bedroom seconds after her first shriek pierces the silence. She sits up in bed, eyes wide open and glassy, sweat beading on her lip, balling up her blanket with trembling hands. I perch beside her and prepare to talk her down. "It's okay," I whisper. "It was just a dream…"

When I reach to put my arm around her, she screams again, recoils from my touch. "_No!_ No…" Her breath comes out in panicky gasps, and her eyes go wild with fear more intense than I've seen since the day they pulled her out of the arena. It panics me a bit, the level of her hysteria, the fact that she's not letting me help her, which she always, always does. That's when I remember what Dr. Linnaeus told me about the terrors- even though Annie seems awake, her mind is still trapped in some horrible dream. And it's so different from the daytime flashbacks that I'm at a loss again.

I lay a hand on her shoulder, shake her gently. "Annie, wake up. _Annie!_" Another ear-splitting cry, as if I'm causing her physical pain. She thrashes violently and whacks my nose with a clenched fist.

It comes back to me, in pieces, the good doctor's words of wisdom. The thing about the night terrors is that the episode really starts when she sits up and appears to awaken, but Annie is technically asleep the whole time. Dr. Linnaeus warned me that the more I try to interfere, the longer and more terrifying the episode becomes, as my actions are incorporated into the dream as another attack. So as long as the terror lasts, she's inconsolable. Out of my reach. I eventually just kneel beside the bed with my head in my hands, wipe at the blood dripping from my nose. Listen to her tormented screams. Feel her thrash around, tangled in her blankets. Know that anything I could do will only make it worse.

Helpless. I'm completely helpless.

It's the arena again. Annie's surrounded by dangers that she has to take on alone, because I can't fight this for her. I can't get to her, can't touch her. I can only watch her suffer.

It feels like this goes on until dawn, but really the whole ordeal lasts about twenty minutes before Annie screams herself out and collapses against her pillow again, drenched in sweat. It probably shouldn't quality as the worst twenty minutes of my life, but I can't for anything remember why not. I squeeze Annie's hand, murmur that she's safe now, and within minutes, she's fast asleep. But I'm much too shaken to go back to bed, afraid to leave her side. I don't want to let go of her.

So I don't.

I wake up a little before dawn, sore from falling asleep on my knees. Annie's still out cold in the bed, eyelids fluttering in sleep, chest rising and falling rhythmically. Sunlight filters through the window blinds, dances on her cheek. She's hurting but alive.

I don't immediately recognize the feeling that overwhelms me. It's _gratitude_. In all of everything we've dealt with since she won the Hunger Games, I never remembered to even be grateful she survived. But I am, I am _so_ grateful Annie's alive, and that she had the strength to clutch my hand through the night. I work my fingers out of her iron grip and brush a strand of hair out of her face.

"Look at that," I whisper. "The sun rose again."

Not much else is going right, but there's that.

I slip out into the hallway, planning to choke down a little breakfast before the others wake up. But I see I'm too late. Pallindra emerges from the bathroom, wrapped in a gigantic fluffy pink robe, eyes bloodshot like she's been drinking, hair all piled up in a towel with her wig slung over one arm. We eye each other for a long moment because she looks so completely ridiculous, and my nose is still crusted over with blood and… I glance back at the door I'm closing behind me and realize I'm coming out of the very wrong room. I start to open my mouth in explanation, but Pallindra cuts me off with an upheld hand.

"It's _much_ too early for this." Her usually chipper voice is thick with grog and possibly hangover.

I don't ask and neither does she.

Mags is wheeled back in half an hour later, a little tired and drugged-up from yesterday's treatment. We're a lively bunch at the breakfast table, Mags nodding off, Pallindra yammering about- and spreading- her pounding headache as she fixes coffee, me silently devising and rejecting a dozen plans for getting Annie out of the Capitol, pretending like I'm not scared out of my mind. By the time the coffee's brewed I've resolved to break up with her publicly as soon as possible, citing no other reason than "she's not good enough". "A bore", even. And would it really hurt so much for her mental struggles to become public knowledge? Right now I'm thinking that there's no way to make Annie too undesirable.

Of course, Annie only adds to our fun when she joins us a few minutes later, eyes still bleary and rimmed with fatigue. My face immediately softens and I get up to greet her, pull her into a tight hug. "How are you doing, chickadee?"

"Still tired." Annie yawns and leans her head against my shoulder. "I had a bad dream last night," she says listlessly.

"Really?" I fight back a sad little smile over the top of her head. She has no memory of my presence last night. "I had a long night, too."

An Avox attendant appears, and out of the whole array of rich food, Annie chooses a bland bowl of oatmeal for breakfast. I pour myself a mug of coffee and dare a sip, practically spewing it out at the first taste. Pallindra offers me a fake sweetener but I refuse, feigning insult. "What does it take to get a regular _sugar cube_ around here?" I shout for all of Panem to hear. Annie snickers behind her hand.

"Eat, both of you!" Pallindra snaps. "She has an interview at two!"

Annie shovels out another bite of oatmeal and then hesitates with the spoon at her lips, watching us pick at our own food. "Shouldn't we wait for Otto?" she asks politely.

One moment everything's normal, Annie is lucid and pleasant. And then it's like someone pulled the pin out of a grenade. There's a horrible silence for one, two, three seconds before Pallindra realizes she's serious and stifles a gasp. Annie pushes back her chair and she's screaming and squeezing her head and then clawing frantically at the skin on her arms. I grab her hands and holler for somebody to help, _help me with her_, please. Pallindra stands frozen in horror and Mags shoves her out of the way with her wheelchair, gathering all the sharp utensils off the table.

We somehow get Annie out to the couch, where she calms down enough to lie still and press an icepack to her forehead. I hold her hand and examine the red marks on her skin, tracing a finger up and down her arm. Thankfully, she didn't pierce the skin, but I can feel her pulse racing in her wrist and her eyes flit around wildly, still waiting for an attack.

"You're safe," I plead with her. Please, please believe it, even if it's another lie.

It's a solid fifteen minutes before Annie comes around again, and she's sick on the floor, and crying with her arms around my neck. Crying and apologizing no matter how many times I tell her she has nothing to be sorry for.

Okay, so the days are long, too.

I sit down beside her and offer my arms, and that's another thing that I'm grateful for, she doesn't hesitate now that she's conscious. Nobody in this penthouse questions the fact that Annie does all her crying on my lap now. Pallindra at least has the good sense to wait until her sobs quiet into shaky breathing on my shoulder before she announces apologetically, "Her prep team is on its way. Do you think she'll be ready for the interview at two?"

I reach up, wipe a couple of fat tears off Annie's cheek, hold them out to Pallindra in answer. Distress flits across her face. "I'm sorry," she hisses defensively. "I'm just _trying _to keep things together!"

"You're not the only one," I shoot back.

She leaves us alone again, and I let Annie cry herself out into my neck. I stroke her hair without speaking, except to hush her occasionally. There's nothing to say that she hasn't heard before, and besides, it's been a long month and I don't trust my voice not to break right now.

So it's quiet until her prep team enters, shrieking and squealing over the mess on the carpet. "Is she sick?" the pink-skinned lady wails. "She _can't _be sick!"

Pallindra clears her throat uncomfortably. "Go ahead and prepare her outfit, give them a few minutes. I believe… I believe she vomited due to psychological issues that we're currently working through-"

At the bewildered murmuring behind her, Annie twists around to face her prep team. "I puke because I'm crazy, alright?" she snaps, voice thick with guilt. They swallow hard and disappear into the bathroom to set up prep headquarters.

I turn Annie's chin toward me when they go. "I don't wanna catch you using that word again," I say as sternly as I can be with her.

Her eyes flicker with pain. "It's true and you know it," Annie moans.

"You can't say stuff like that. You _can't_ beat yourself up for this, Annie. You don't think sane people ever panic like that?" She shakes her head _no_ with a childlike fierceness.

"You obviously never saw me during your Games," I mutter. I immediately regret mentioning it and try to recover, lighten the mood a bit. "But then, you think I'm a lunatic anyway, so maybe I'm not the best example."

Annie almost laughs. Almost. "Bet you didn't puke on the floor," she says dismally.

"Bet I did," I whisper.

"Which is a miracle, considering I couldn't get him to eat for anything," Pallindra says matter-of-factly as she breezes by into the kitchen. Annie's eyes come up to meet mine, and she's searching me again. For one frozen moment, I feel like I'm taking a test and I don't know if I'm passing and it's terrifying in the way only Annie can scare me. Then her face softens and the tiniest trace of a smile appears on her lips.

"We're messed up, aren't we?" she whispers just beside my ear, and I let that one slide because it's completely true.

"It's sort of a messed-up world," I reply. "And I bet you can't wait to be out of it."

She's finally steady again, and every time she exhales there's a little hot puff of air on my neck. I see the way I'm cradling her with my arms encircling her back, and I think I might be holding on much too tightly. She's leaving soon, after all. I loosen my grip but she doesn't. Can't. Won't.

"Won't it follow me?" Annie whispers intently, fingers tightening on my shoulder like she's afraid of my answer.

"I won't let it," I promise, even though she doesn't know I'm not talking about her nightmares and flashbacks, which I'm even more powerless against than the Capitol. "Just a few more days. One more interview. I know you can do this, then you're home free. Out of here forever." I unravel my arms from around her waist and gently urge her to get up. "You go get on a pretty dress for me."

"Okay." Annie stands and takes a deep, cleansing breath. She's almost to the bathroom door when she whirls around with a new burning light in her eyes. "Finnick, why was I reaped?" she blurts out.

I suddenly hear an echo of Willow's frightened voice. _We didn't do anything. It was a lottery. They drew your name- by chance, unless you volunteered._ I hesitate because I have no idea how secure our apartment really is, and with this conversation, we're already pushing it. Not to mention that repeating Willow's words will likely set off another flashback. So I just smile grimly. "Pretty dress now. Deep thoughts later," I hint, hoping she'll catch the warning behind my words. Annie nods and disappears into the bathroom without another word.

I flop back against the couch cushions as soon as she's gone and hear a gurgling chuckle behind me. I turn and find that Mags has parked her wheelchair beside the armrest and her eyes are glittering brighter than they've been all morning. "Cute," she murmurs.

"Sexy," I correct wearily.

I consider telling Mags everything, showing her the note from the Capitol, but eventually decide against it. She couldn't do anything about it, anyway, and I don't know what the stress of it would do to her. Annie's not the only one who has setbacks, Mags has been worse again today. She's having more trouble than usual forming words and sentences or even hand gestures now. She can't quite coordinate her arms.

Of all our little messed-up party of people, I have the privilege of being the least fragile.

* * *

><p>Pallindra takes the most frustrating pains to keep Annie and I apart before her interview, fearing that I'm a 'distraction'. Which is a shame, considering I could <em>really <em>stand to explain the current status of our fake relationship as soon as possible. I don't know if something happens during prep, but the woman changes her mind and deems my presence _absolutely _necessary in the recording room just minutes before the camera rolls. "Seeing you keeps her calm sometimes," she admits.

I'm seated behind the film crew across from what is supposed to seem like a cozy living room setting. Annie's in a plush velvet chair with her back to a crackling synthetic fire- it's the tail end of summer, too hot for a real flame. I try to wave to her but Pallindra swats my hand down, I'm such a horrible distraction. Caesar Flickerman stands off to one side, getting his face powdered and his repulsive swamp green wig adjusted. The cameraman in charge is motioning for him to take a seat beside Annie, but he holds up a finger in hesitation, hurrying over to me instead.

"Mr. Odair," Caesar begins, glittering white smile just a shade duller than usual. "Mr. Odair, I must thank you for your… _assistance_ last night."

I nod half-heartedly. "Of course. What else was I going to do?" I hope he knows I came to the rescue for Annie's sake and not for his show's.

"I- I'm going to do my best to accommodate so there's no scene today, I just…" he falters, and something like sympathy, or even sadness, creeps into his eyes. "No one told me she was ill."

For a moment, I feel almost sorry for the star. I know he represents the majority of Panem, or at least of the Capitol. Taken by Annie's charm, confused and unnerved by her outbursts, genuinely oblivious to what they've done to her. They like her, and maybe even care about her. But obviously not enough.

_Finnick, why was I reaped?_

Because everybody cares, but not enough to fix anything.

I don't answer before Caesar's hustled back on set. Pallindra takes a seat behind the scenes with me, eyes wise like she's witnessed the entire conversation.

"He really is a very kind man," she whispers in my ear as the cameraman holds up fingers to count down. "And very apologetic for last night's… mishap, although it certainly wasn't _his _fault. But he asked for a list of her triggers this morning and wanted to know if there was anything he could ask about that _wouldn't _set her off."

"What did you tell him?" Somehow I know, even before the stage manager silences us, before the Capitol anthem plays, before her eyebrows shoot up in answer to my obvious question.

Annie has one safe subject. And who doesn't love a good, juicy romance?

I'm trying to _end_ that romance. It's time for the publicity to stop, we're in far too deep. I take a deep breath and remind myself that the whole thing is riding on me in the first place, that I told Annie she didn't have to play along and I really doubt she will. Annie's not going to fabricate any mad obsession with me on live TV that will make our public break-up less believable. If anything, she'll be indifferent, which should help me out quite a bit. It might sting a little- a lot- but I know it's for the best.

So I can't really do anything besides relax and watch the show. It should be interesting, to say the least. The lights come up on Annie and Caesar and the fake fire crackles coldly behind them.

"Hello again, Miss Cresta!" Caesar says jovially, his earlier discomfort completely undetectable. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"

Annie nods slowly. "I can't stand to be away," she says. Her voice is deadpan. I think it was a dry insult, but no one else notices.

"Today, on our show, I'd like you to relax a bit. We all saw your Games, and they were intense and they were exciting and so much _fun_, but maybe it's time to wind down from that a bit. Let's all just relax, shall we? Put the past behind us and let's talk about something more…" Caesar leans in confidentially. "Personal," he whispers like he's not broadcasting the idea on live mandatory-viewing television.

"Let's do," Annie agrees, squirming nervously in her chair.

"Like I said, we all saw your Games and we saw Finnick and his desire to bring you back victorious. That level of dedication, well, you only show that to someone that you're dying to see again. Wouldn't you say?"

"Of course," Annie says evenly. "He worked around to clock to get me home. I'd say… I'd say that time was very difficult for him." She sighs when she realizes she's expected to elaborate. "I just… it's all so unexpected, if you know what I mean. Finnick Odair and I? He's a celebrity, and I'm just a little girl from the wharf."

Confusion over whether we belong together, whether our social status will drive us apart. It's a good angle she's introduced. I can work with that later.

Caesar laughs loudly. "Not anymore you're not. I don't know if anybody's told you, but you're pretty famous yourself now!"

Annie also laughs, a bit flatly, and Caesar busts a gut, then leans forward, wiping his eyes. "Tell me, though, is that what it felt like, meeting him for the first time? Like meeting a celebrity?"

Annie rolls her eyes. "Goodness, everyone acts like we'd never met until the Reaping," she says matter-of-factly.

But we _didn't _meet until the Reaping. I find myself frowning, extremely confused, because I have absolutely no idea where she's going with this.

"Oh?" Caesar raises an eyebrow. "Perhaps you should explain."

"You've got to understand. You don't grow up in Four not knowing Finnick Odair. We went to school together when we were young, and he was always talk of the town, you know, his winning smile and his skill with the trident. Not to mention he was planning to volunteer so young. Everybody _loved_ him." There's a not-quite-hidden note of irritation in Annie's voice even as she brags on my glamorous reputation.

"_Especially_ the young ladies, I presume?" Caesar asks with a grin.

"Oh, don't get me started," Annie mutters. "Every girl in my class, his class, three classes above and below us were wild over him and fighting over him even back in grade school. My _sister…_" A distant look comes into her eyes, but it's not the usual terrifying flashback. Annie smiles softly as she remembers. "My sister was the _worst. _She wrote his name on _everything_- notebooks, homework, sometimes even her hands."

Caesar's gleeful at this revelation. "Your sister did that? Oh, that's priceless! And you?"

"I was too little to like boys then," Annie confesses, to gloss over the fact that she probably hated my guts. "But my brothers and I teased her plenty. What did we say…" she trails off for a moment, and her smile widens. "It was something like… _Claire Odair, Claire Odair_…" Annie chants, then stifles a laugh. "_Had a baby with his eyes and his perfect hair._"

I also stifle laughter behind the camera. Of course I knew about my carefully constructed reputation in Four, and my popularity with the girls, but I'd never really imagined I was a common household name in Annie's normal life with her siblings.

"Wow!" Caesar exclaims in exaggerated shock. "Has it occurred to you that she's watching this right now?"

"Oh, she won't mind," Annie says with a dismissive wave of her hand. She's apparently enjoying telling this story. "Did you know that he dated her briefly?"

I freeze in the middle of my silent laughter. I did _what_ now?

"Oh, no, I had no idea!"

Join the club.

"It was years and years ago. For maybe ten hours. I think they were thirteen, and my father caught them kissing under the dock." Annie grins mischievously. "It ended fast after that."

I'm racking my brain for memories of _Claire Cresta_ when I was in school. I remember her name and her face from the interview during the Games, and I knew I recognized her from somewhere, but I have absolutely no recollection of dating or kissing her at all. It doesn't mean it didn't happen, though, there have been a lot of names and pretty faces since then, but I'm still pretty disgusted with myself for not being sure.

"Did it, now?"

"My father…" Annie's enjoying this _far _too much. "My father dragged him back to our house before you could say 'grounded'. He went back behind the shed and pulled out his belt and-"

_Oh._ I suddenly start. Everything clicks into place at that. I didn't remember the girl or the kiss or the father or the house, but now I remember the belt and the pain and regretting something I did for maybe the first and only time before the Games. Yes, it comes back to me slowly, and I can see a glint of her sister's golden hair and their father's scraggly beard and the dim twilight out behind the shed, and something keeps stinging my back so sharply I almost cry out. I glance up at the clapboard house once and wait for that blond girl to come to my defense, even though I saw her flee up to her room already, crying hysterically.

There's no one left there in the window except a pale little girl with tangled brown curls, big sad ocean-colored eyes watching me. Every time I'm lashed she winces.

And isn't that _bizarre?_ I remember Annie Cresta. I remember her.

"She pouted for weeks because she couldn't have him," Annie recalls. "It was very sad, in a way."

Caesar leans in close. "I'm guessing you have one _very_ jealous sister at home right now," he says with great relish.

"Oh, of course not. She moved on a long time ago. She's engaged to a wonderful man now," Annie reassures him.

"Good for her! When's the wedding?" They go off on a rabbit trail, and I just sit there, stunned.

You know what Annie _does_ have at home right now? One _very _angry father.

"Okay, now the question we're all wondering about." Caesar brings the conversation back in, folding his hands seriously, and I know I don't have time to sort through the memories right now. "How do _you _feel about Finnick?"

Annie sighs heavily. "Oh… Caesar… I've had a lot of things to sort through lately… You'll understand if that hasn't been at the front of my mind."

He nods like he actually understands. "Of course, of course… I'm just finding it a little hard to believe that you weren't one of the girls back home, rooting for him…" He flutters his eyelashes dramatically. "_Pining _for him…"

Annie snorts. "Yes, because I make it a habit to pine for all my sister's boyfriends. _That _would go over well."

"Ohhh." Caesar's eyes crinkle merrily. "I remember his first interview. Don't tell me that when you saw him up on that stage, your little-girl heart wasn't pounding like a hammer." Annie directs her gaze firmly at the ceiling. "Oh. Oh, what do I see there? What do I see? Is that a blush, Miss Cresta?"

It is. I think I'm imagining it at first, because in my little world, people don't blush. Especially not over things like childhood crushes. Annie's cheeks go rosy and did I mention, she's completely adorable?

"What did I tell you? There's no denying that Mr. Odair is quite the charmer."

"I suppose I liked his eyes," Annie says, voice a note higher than it was a moment before. I can't help frowning. She must be making stuff up now, or really misremembering, because the only reaction she ever had to my eyes was the urge to sear them with pepper. "But I just never figured… he was my type."

I don't imagine that her type was ever the type to volunteer for the chance to slaughter seven people.

"Still, hard not to fall for him, huh?" Caesar actually winks.

"It sure wasn't impossible. He just- oh, gosh. When I first came here, he- he seemed pretty… shallow."

That's because I am, here, Annie, please don't forget that.

"Shallow?" Caesar repeats. In the Capitol, the word refers to a bowl of punch that needs to be refilled. Annie squirms, trying to back up and not condemn her audience.

"Just a pretty boy. A party animal. No real… substance, you know? But… there's a side to him that I got to know later. When Mags got sick-"

"Mags who?" Caesar interrupts. I'm not surprised, but Annie is. She shoots him a halfway-disgusted look.

"Finnick's mentor. She was supposed to be my mentor, too. She had a stroke the second day of training, and he waited up all night beside her bed. He treats her like a mother. It was… sweet."

No. I am not _sweet. _I wish she would work with me here. But I'm suddenly thinking of the moment I walked in on Annie in Mags' hospital room, how touched I was that she had missed her training time for a bowl of broth and a mute old woman. I never imagined that my concern had touched her, too.

"I mean, I appreciate everything he's done for me. And I know… I know he cares about me…"

I'm not supposed to care about anything. Not Annie. Not Mags. Hasn't she picked up on that?

"But _how _do you know that?" Caesar pleads.

"It was just little things like that. Even though Otto was the favorite to win, he still took time to train me personally. And- and- he told me how much he didn't want to see me die." Annie takes a deep breath, and her eyes glaze over as if the cameras and audience are nonexistent. "And the morning of the Games, I was so scared, he held me, and he promised he would never, ever forget me." She suddenly stops and presses a hand over her mouth as if she's said too much. And she has, but I'm on the edge of my seat, dying to hear the rest of it.

Caesar chuckles, and his eyes are soft with something almost like pity. "Well, we all know that Finnick makes a lot of sweet promises to his ladies."

And just like that, the light in Annie's eyes is extinguished. "Yes," she says acidicly, slumping back in her seat. "So I've heard."

And that's wonderful for our break-up, you know, she just burned me on live television. It's perfect. It's just fine.

_It's. FINE._

I don't hear the remainder of the interview.

* * *

><p>As soon as the cameraman yells cut, Annie runs off set. I catch her arm as she passes. "Annie, can I talk to you?" It comes out sounding more like begging than a request.<p>

She turns back to me, eyes just as pleading. "I need a minute, Finnick. Okay?"

"Okay," I agree. Annie squirms out of my grasp and disappears down the hall. It's the first time she's ever consciously rejected me.

She doesn't look back.

* * *

><p><strong>Just because, in my mind, everyone should be humiliated while contemplating personal feelings on live TV. :) :) :) Annie, thanks for taking one for Team District Four. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed!<strong>

**Oh hey! Just FYI, I'm going to be changing my username soon, but it'll still be me, I promise. Not some looney who hacked my account :) And does anybody want to help me name that Gamemaker Finnick saved last chapter? Something good and Panem-y! :D  
><strong>


	30. Caution

**Who wants Finnick and Annie to sneak away and have more private conversations? Who wants to watch Finnick throw a temper tantrum? PICK ME! I do! ...So this chapter is more of the same of the past few but things pick up again in the next one, I promise. :) ENJOY!**

* * *

><p>"<em>You and Annie Cresta? Over? Say it isn't so!"<em>

I sprawl out on the living room floor with a blank notebook page folded open in front of me. "You ready to break up, chickadee?"

Annie lies on her stomach across the notepad from me, pushing her hair back so she can peer down at the notes I'm scribbling. "Let's do," she says gleefully.

And we brainstorm for my interview.

"_Well, Caesar, I'm sorry to say that I'm not sorry to say it's true."_

"_What on earth happened? It really seemed like you two had something going on- nearly two weeks with her-"_

"That's a record set, you know," I inform Annie in a mock-serious voice.

"Two weeks," she ponders, eyebrows twitching. "Two _abysmally-_"

"Abysmally_ dragging weeks. See that's the problem, when you live in a great city like this, you've got to always be looking for the next greatest thing, and that's constantly changing. That's just not Anna anymore."_

"_Annie…"_

_"Kissing her- did I mention kissing her is something like kissing a corpse? Lifeless, completely, I mean minus the smell. Although that wasn't the best after the arena, either. And that head-banging nervous thing she does? Do you know how much of an _interruption _that can be?" _

_"Mr. Odair-"_

"A corpse?" Annie wails indignantly. "That's all you got?" A gleam comes into her eyes. "Oh, Finnick, kissing _me_… well, kissing me is like-"

_"Not a corpse. That's not what I'm trying to say. Hmmm… Picture- picture your great-grandmother, no teeth, tongue in a brace, sort of prune-flavored…"_

We come up with pages upon pages of ways in which she is a horrible kisser, and it's ironic because neither of us actually has any idea at all.

"Well, my dear Miss Cresta," I joke, rising to my knees and folding the notepad over. "Tomorrow at dawn I pull off the act of the century- pretending that you are uninteresting and unattractive."

She laughs a little, lightly, and her eyes turn serious and that makes them magnets for mine. Trying to look away is useless. "You don't act with me." The eyebrow lift is the only thing that makes the statement a question.

There's only a heartbeat pause before I say, "Never."

I'd like to say she seems convinced.

"_So, Mr. Odair, tell me what comes next."_

* * *

><p>There is now officially no me and Annie Cresta.<p>

There _is_, however, going to be a me and Cynthia Milieus, I learn when Pallindra hands me the day's mail back in the apartment. The elegant cursive informs me that we have a date scheduled for the day I return from the celebration in Four. I tear up the invitation in a fit before I realize that I didn't write down the address, and I'm already walking on eggshells with the president of Panem.

I tape it back together again.

Needless to say, I'm not in a good mood before tonight's activity, which is some sort of parade or something that I don't plan to pay attention to. It's not even a parade to showcase the victor, which is fine by me, but some sort of vogue fashion event to display the latest trends set by the Games.

It doesn't help any when Annie comes from her prep team all dolled up with the sourest angry look on her face, as if they've tied her corset too tight. She marches up to me with her arms crossed over her chest like a pouting little girl.

"Say my name," she spits, rising up on her tiptoes until she's inches from my face.

"Annie Cresta." I can't believe she's upset, the name-flub was something we planned and laughed about just a few short hours before.

"_What_ was it?" Annie demands, mouth twitching like she's about to either snarl or burst out laughing.

"Annie Cresta," I repeat, but this time my voice comes out a note higher, because why doesn't she know that I will never ever ever forget her name as long as I live?

Annie's scowl suddenly cracks and she's smiling at me and I'm ridiculously relieved. "I thought I was going to have to pulverize you there for a minute," she teases, and she was teasing the whole time but apparently that's a sore topic for me. She must sense that I'm not amused, because she slips her hand through mine and smiles gently. "What's in a name, anyway?"

In one like Finnick Odair, a whole lot of nothing.

We're all the way to the elevator before Annie glances down at our intertwined fingers again and bites her lip nervously. "Sorry… Is this appropriate now that we're… through?" she asks, stifling a giggle.

I assure her that there's very little that's considered inappropriate in the Capitol, mostly because I don't want her to let go.

The parade is a gigantic pompous waste of time and money during which I learn that shark teeth and mermaid fins are still in style. The costumes are nearly as gaudy and ridiculous as the ones the tributes donned for their chariot ride, and it's hard not to see Otto in all the glittering razor-sharp points. Annie assures me she's alright, though, and so we split up for a while. Pallindra's with her at all times and I end up talking to girls, girls, and more girls, and they are so tragically, secretly thrilled that Annie and I are over. My fake relationship was the dam holding them back before, and now that it's cracked away, they're flooding back in again. I feel horrible, playing my part, but every time I catch Annie's eye we start laughing silently, because only she knows how un-smooth I can actually be.

Then I meet a woman named Cynthia who is all bubbling smiles and breathing into my ear, and she can't wait and apparently I can't either. It won't be long, though, just a short detour to Four, and then I'll be back for her. She nuzzles against my cheek and then takes my arm, fastens a band around it.

A golden wristwatch. Elegant finish sparkling in the city lights, smooth polished marble face. It must be worth a fortune. Cynthia beams proudly as I continue to study it, turning it over and over around my wrist. "Consider it a deposit," she purrs into my ear.

And I'd been flirting and teasing and purring back, but when I glance back up at her, I know that my composure is broken, and my face is demanding to know only one thing.

_What the _heck_ makes you think I want this?_

Cynthia has the good sense to disappear into the crowd again.

The fireworks start then. They're launched over our heads in a big, elaborate display that's a hit with everyone but the one we're celebrating. The hair rises on my neck before I can even figure out why, but seeing Annie's pained expression makes everything clear. The colors are mesmerizing but to the two of us, the sound will only ever be cannon shots. She doesn't have to say a word, I just nod to the training center doors and meet her back inside.

I have a security pass inside the building and I actually have to use it to get into the lobby, which means we're alone while everybody else is intently watching the celebration outside. It's a big, empty, looming room that's set up like the interior to a ritzy hotel, with an arrangement of waiting armchairs in the center of the room and a bubbling trickle of a waterfall flowing down one wall into a marble basin on the floor. Annie walks past the comfy lounge chairs and immediately sits down on the edge of the basin. I permanently borrow some refreshments from behind the service counter before I join her. She's bent over, tracing little patterns in the rippling water with a finger, and I have to brush back her hair to see that she's fighting the world inside her mind at the moment. And I don't know that she's winning.

"Uh oh," I whisper, immediately dropping the snacks I scavenged for. "Man overboard… we have one lovely Miss Cresta lost at sea…" I take her hand and squeeze it, brush a thumb over her cheek with the other hand. Annie's eyes take a moment to roll around and focus, and then she's shivering ever so slightly with adrenaline.

"Sorry," she murmurs, rubbing both hands over her temples. "I hate when I do that."

"Don't apologize. It isn't your fault," I insist. Annie knows better than to argue with me on this. It's one of the few battles we ever have and I'm proud to say I win it.

Her gaze flits down to the hand I'm resting on her cheek. "Nice watch," she says innocently.

I pull my arm away and immediately unfasten the golden band. "Piece of Capitol trash," I mutter, face hot. I hold it out over the water, but Annie halts me with just a few words.

"It'd feed a hundred families in Four."

And I should have known, Annie can find the good in any horrible thing.

She sighs deeply and goes back to running a finger through the water like she's trying to slice her reflection to pieces. "Why was I reaped?" she asks in a much steadier voice than I expected.

I blow out a quick breath, because this is about the last thing I want to talk about at the moment. "You mean besides the fact that your name was drawn out of a glass ball?" I ask lamely.

Annie shakes her head slowly. "It was in there five times. Only- only five. Are you good with odds?" I have to admit I am not. "It's… astronomical." She turns to me with a pleading expression. "Do you ever think about why things happen?"

I lean my back against the marble wall and stretch my legs out in front of me, settling in for what is probably going to be a long and painful conversation. "As seldom as I can," I say a bit flippantly.

She ignores my tone. "Don't you ever think about why things happen, and why people meet, and what's supposed to come out of it?"

I really don't, but she looks so sincerely desperate for an answer that I shrug lightly. "I don't know, but that was pretty uncanny, that story you told about your family. I mean… I dated your sister?"

Annie bursts out laughing, and I'm relieved that I've diverted the subject, at least for a moment. "You honestly don't remember?"

"Don't get me wrong, I'm sure she's a great girl… I just…" I run a hand through my hair. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head, still smothering laughter. "You'd be relieved to know she's moved on pretty completely, too. It's just so weird to think about people and how… I mean, our families are connected, you know. My father used to work for your father."

I frown. "He did?"

"On his fishing boat." Annie hesitates, possibly afraid to reveal how much she knows about my life. "That- that day it sunk, my father had pneumonia. He was at death's door and didn't have any pay for the time off, and my mother thought it was the worst thing in the world that could happen to us. But I guess not." Annie looks so apologetic, as if she's personally responsible for the fact that her father survived and my father didn't.

"Go on, it's alright," I say quietly. I'm wondering if she knows exactly what _I_ had believed about the accident.

"My mother told us everyday that something good comes out of every bad thing, no matter how terrible it is," she whispers. "It's strange to think, if my dad had been well he would have died, and I wouldn't be here right now. I wouldn't have ever been born at all." Annie glances up at me hesitantly. "And if your dad lived, I don't think you'd be here, either. Would you have volunteered?"

I fight back a scowl. "How do you know why I volunteered?"

Annie flinches. "Mags told me. That first day when we were getting ready for the parade. After I threw pepper in your eyes."

_Mags. _Oh, she will pay later. "Why would she tell you something depressing like that?" I ask, a bit defensively. Annie was a complete stranger at the time, and one that Mags advised me to stay away from, at that.

Annie smiles sheepishly. "Maybe because I had just said you were a heartless jerk and I couldn't stand anything about you."

I relax ever so slightly. I'm almost glad to know that Mags would stick up for me if anybody said something like that. "What'd you say when she told you?"

"Nothing coherent. I cried."

She says it so off-handedly, like it's nothing, but it hits me like a punch in the gut, that Annie would cry over the unfairness of my life. I can't decide whether to be really flattered or really sorry or really, extremely confused.

"So I take it your hatred of me is slightly lessened?" I manage.

She breaks out in that shy smile that sort of makes my heart tingle. I don't remember letting go of her hand, but I must have, because she's taking hold of it again in both of hers. "Extremely lessened," Annie mutters.

I push off the wall, scooting closer beside Annie, and find my mouth turning up on one side in a somewhat crooked smile. "Sooooooooo," I tease. "What's this I heard about my eyes?"

It's a low blow, and she knows it. Annie makes a very valiant effort to glare at me. "Give me a break, alright? I was ten." She snorts loudly. "Just another helpless victim of Finnick Odair's eyes, huh?"

"Well, if it makes you feel any better…" I turn her face toward me with my thumb. "I'm kind of a big fan of yours."

Annie gives those wide green eyes a roll, but there's another shy smile forming on her lips. Impulsively, I reach up and brush a strand of hair out of her face as I've done so many times before. My hand rests on her cheek and her eyes close at my touch.

My heart starts pounding. She looks _peaceful._

"You're beautiful." I don't expect that to come out, but here it is and it's too late to back down now. "Do you know that I think you're beautiful?" I don't realize how close my lips have crept to hers, and Annie must feel my words more than hear them, because her eyes fly open again and she immediately jerks back.

"What are you _doing_?" Annie gasps. I scoot away from her so quickly I end up dunking an arm up to my elbow in the fountain.

What _am_ I doing?

"What exactly was that?" Annie's face is flashing with anger because she knows _exactly _what I was about to do. I must be the biggest idiot alive. We broke up this morning, and she goes home in less than two days, so why on _earth _would I kiss her now?

"I don't know." I shake my dripping sleeve out into the basin. "I'm sorry, Annie."

"I don't see any cameras. So quit charming me," she mutters. "You _said_ you wouldn't pretend when it was just us."

I have to wince at that. This is the only thing I have going for me, that I never, ever, ever lie to her. "I'm sorry, Annie. I just wanted to make you smile, okay? I was just playing-"

"Well, don't _play_ with me." She studies my face. "You're the only one I trust around here, I don't need you messing with my head!" Her words are winding up tighter and tighter, and I don't remember ever seeing her this upset. "Don't you think my head is messed up enough already?"

"Annie…" If she'd just give me a second to explain… I probably couldn't. It's too late to calm her down anyway. I see that her eyes are glazing over, and I'm afraid she's going to slip away again, even though I have no idea why this would be a trigger for her.

"Do you have _any idea _what it's like?" she hisses. "To be told you're delusional? And then… and then every little thing you say, and when we're alone and… I _can't _tell what's real anymore, Finnick! I can't tell… if you're…" Annie chokes on her words and turns away, frustrated.

She can't tell if I'm for real. But she thinks I might be. This is exactly what I was trying to avoid. Finding out that Finnick Odair cares for you has got to be a nightmare, and she's got enough of those already.

"Annie, listen to me." I grab her arm and force her to turn around and face me. "You don't worry about me, all right? Just worry about yourself. The only thing you need to know about me is that I'm going to be honest with you."

"But-" I cut her off there.

"Yes, I think you have pretty eyes. But that's irrelevant. Because you're going home in just a couple of days and then you forget about me."

Annie's shaking her head. Why on earth is she shaking her head? She glances down shyly and absently fingers my watch.

Did you know she can find value in Capitol trash?

"It'll be different in Four," she whispers. "Less complicated. Maybe I'll- I'll think more clearly."

That's when I realize that there is one huge, glaring fact that she is missing about the nature of our relationship. "Annie," I begin, feeling my heart start clawing its way up my throat. "I'm not staying in Four."

"_What?!_" she shrieks, so loudly I must lose an eardrum.

"Maybe for a night or two but then…" I stop there because she's shaking again. "Annie?"

She looks up with the question written all over her face. If only she wasn't a blank book, and I couldn't read her like this. "I'm sorry," I whisper, and what I say next isn't completely a lie. "But I don't belong in Four. It's… not my home anymore."

Annie nods slowly, but she looks like she's about to throw up. "This is home, now?" Her voice is heavy with sadness and anger and _disappointment._

I can't stand it. "I… Annie, I-"

The door to the training center lobby whirs open then, and we both jerk around to see Pallindra waving her own key card, absolutely livid. Her eyes sweep over me and Annie and the fountain and then drill into me again.

"Absolutely not," she says firmly. "Ab-so-lute-ly _not._" Pallindra storms over and grabs Annie's arm, jerks her up from her seat on the basin's edge. "Sneaking away together the night_, _the _very night_ of your break-up?" She takes my chin roughly in her hand and scowls. "I thought I could trust you," Pallindra hisses. I can't blush and yet I'm sure I go beet red when she says it in front of Annie.

"You don't go off alone with him anymore, my dear," Pallindra instructs Annie curtly as they head for the door. She nods, but I see that she's crying.

They disappear, and I'm left alone in the still, dark room, listening to the waterfall's gentle splashes behind me, replaying the conversation again and again in my mind and picking out all the many points where I went wrong.

That's when I figure out there could only be one thing in the world worse than realizing Finnick Odair actually cares about you. And that is realizing that you care about him, too.

* * *

><p>I'm tying knots in the living room after the evening's activities end when there's a sharp knock at the door. I've only considered rising to open it before somebody's pounding on the apartment door like his life depends on it, and there's a familiar slurred voice outside calling for someone named Effie. I roll my eyes and grudgingly get up to unlock the door. Haymitch must have been leaning against it, because my outstretched arm is the only thing that keeps him from plummeting to the floor.<p>

"Romeo?" he asks dazedly, bloodshot eyes flitting around the apartment and then back to my face. "This isn't the penthouse, I take it?"

"No, you're about eight floors off, Abernathy." I help him steady himself and peek out into the hallway, shut and lock the door behind him. Haymitch would have to be _extremely _wasted to show up here unless he had something very important to tell me.

"Well, while I'm here…" Haymitch trails off, staggers into the bathroom and vomits into the toilet. Repeatedly.

So he really might be that wasted.

I roll my eyes, get him a glass of water, because I think I still owe Haymitch a debt for having my back during the Games. We victors, I'm gradually finding out, always have each other's miserable, drunken, pathetic, losing-control backs.

He's collapsed into one of the kitchen chairs when I return, rambling about the best quality spirits in the Capitol, and I have to force the glass into his trembling hands and talk him through swallowing it.

"Drink, _moron_," I coax him oh-so-gently. I somehow doubt anyone's had to encourage Haymitch to do _that_ before. He spills half the contents down his shirt onto the floor. The idiot's shaking like he hasn't consumed anything besides liquor in the two days since the Banquet, and he probably hasn't. I hate to think of how I'd be shaking if I'd lost Annie in the flood like that.

"Hanky?" I ask the dripping drunk dryly.

"Got my own," Haymitch mutters, pulling a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and blotting his stubbly beard with it. Then he drops the crumpled wad on the table. "Throw that out for me, would ya?"

Something clicks in my mind, and I pick up the paper off the table, unfold the soggy pages carefully. It's an old-fashioned print magazine- long since out of vogue in the Capitol, but not unheard of. And there's a heavy crease along one page. The obituaries. My eyes skim them as I pace over to the trash can.

_Paseo Verus, head technical director of the 70th Annual Hunger Games, tragically passed away last night due to lethal complications from a heart attack on Wednesday._

Complications. Aren't things sure getting complicated?

I escort Haymitch back to the elevator silently, but he's already seeming more sober. This has got to be some sort of 'last warning' for me from the President. He can do what he likes with whoever who likes, regardless of what the public wants. And it hasn't helped any, breaking up with Annie, if we keep sneaking off together like that.

For once, Pallindra is right. It won't happen again.

When I return to the penthouse, I hear voices drifting from the kitchen, Mags' garbled speech and then Annie's slightly wound-up tone. They sound as if they're pretty intent in conversation.

"I just don't even know if-" Annie cuts off when I appear in the doorway, and from her sudden blush and Mags' not-quite-restrained smile, I know exactly what they're talking about.

"Sorry. Did I interrupt something?" I ask before the silence gets even more uncomfortable.

Annie smiles tightly, pretending like her face isn't matching the burgundy curtains. "Of course not," she says, rising from her chair and kissing Mags' cheek gently. Mags grins a toothless grin at her. "We were just chatting. You know, your mentor is a great listener."

Annie brushes past me down the hallway, and I turn back to Mags as soon as I hear her door click shut behind her. "What was that about?" I ask.

She just shrugs. "Mags, you were talking about me. What- what on earth did she say?"

Mags sighs heavily, gesturing to her mouth in mock frustration.

"Oh, you can't talk, I see," I say dryly. "Well, you were talking to Annie just fine. It's fine, I probably don't want to know." If Annie loved me it would only hurt her in the end, and I'm not selfish enough to want that. I'm not.

And yet, I am. I want it more than anything, and I don't know much about love but maybe that's a part of it. A drawback, somehow. If you love somebody, you want them to love you in return, even when you know it's impossible.

"Oh, come _on!_" My tone can only be described as a whine. Mags reaches for the knife to butter the roll she's working on, her lips still twitching in amusement. I shake my head harder. "Forget it. It really doesn't matter what she thinks of me. She's going home, anyway. I have to stay here. You know, even if she... even if she cared, it's not like there's any way we could be together. There's no way I'm going to- to leave her every time I have to-"

I break off the statement, because right in the spot where there used to be a familiar little aching bruise on my heart, there's a deep, sharp, searing pain so intense that I have to grit my teeth against it for a moment. And it scares me, because I worked so hard for so long to create that little numb spot, and it's gone now and I know it's not coming back.

Mags reaches for my hand and I recoil, slam a fist down on the table in frustration. "Just tell me what she said!" I'm almost shouting, trying to push down the lump in my throat.

Mags plucks a roll out of the wicker basket and starts to butter it. "Jam?" she asks innocently.

"You can talk, you fool old woman!" I snarl. "Just answer a simple question!"

I know she won't. She would never betray Annie's confidence any more than she would mine. And deep down I know she's completely fair. I'm the one being utterly unreasonable, and that only makes me madder. The jar of jam and the roll and a couple articles of silverware get slammed to the floor, and I'm spitting out every curse word I've ever heard in the Capitol and District Four combined, and a few from Seven that I must have picked up from Johanna. I empty all my anger out on her, because she's the only one I'm certain will still love me afterwards.

Mags sits across from me with a very calm, patient, slightly amused expression, the way one might watch a little child who is throwing an exaggerated temper tantrum. I can't stand it because she's right, I'm childish, she's _always right._ I storm out of the room, slamming my bedroom door in frustration.

I hear her laughter echoing all the way down the hall.

My last act of violence is throwing that ridiculous watch across the room, but of course, it's of too good a quality to shatter satisfyingly against the wall. With a big, self-pitying sigh, I drop into bed face-first and find an envelope tucked neatly between my pillows. Another job. Wonderful. I pull it out and take one glance at my name in the fancy cursive, fully prepared to shred it like the other but without even reading a word first. I just don't care anymore.

I stop and my hands start to shake, because this invitation smells like roses. This is no job at all.

So much for one last warning.

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><p><strong>Oh no! :O SUSPENSE! The obligatory talk-with-Snow comes next, I'm excited! That man is wickedly fun to write for. <strong>**So... Finnick is horrible for going off on Mags like that but I really enjoyed that part... :D Oh, he's so _emotional..._  
><strong>

**Special thanks to cherrypieblues- I mean, spin me round again- for providing the deceased Gamemaker's surname. "Verus", as she tells me, was the first Roman Emperor to die of poisoning. Wikipedia said something similar. So how's that for you history buffs? :D  
><strong>


	31. Business

**Hey y'all! :) I return with an obligatory deal-with-Snow scene. That lunatic is sickly fun to write for, actually. He's so creepy. But first, another flashback to Finnick's life after Games- the most telling one yet, I'd say. I enjoyed that part, hopefully you do too!**

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><p>When I got my 'invitation' from the Capitol at sixteen, I laughed.<p>

If winning was nothing like I expected, then returning to Four definitely wasn't, either. I expected to be hailed as a celebrity, a hero, a heartthrob. I thought I would be signing autographs until my fingers and heart were numb, and all the girls would flock around me and they'd want to kiss me. I'd be able to drown my sorrows in the attention and forget that I'd been lied to and sold and treated as expendable, because now, _now_ they could never lose me. I got off the train in Four and people cheered and screamed my name and lavished me with praise.

The train pulled away with the cameramen and Capitol attendants in tow, and everyone disappeared.

I tried to go on normally, at first. I pretended I wasn't being iced out, I showed off, I flirted with every one of my ex-girlfriends, and maybe they had missed me, but their parents pulled them away quickly. I might have been a victor in their eyes, even killing innocent children, except one of them was Cassandra and that made me a murderer. Everybody whispered and I pretended I didn't hear them telling their daughters, _don't you know the last girl he kissed is dead?_

They didn't know I kissed her, actually, but I still somehow saw the words formed on everybody's lips.

The only place I could drown my sorrows was the ocean.

I borrowed one of my father's old fishing sloops- well, stole, actually, but couldn't I have whatever I wanted? Every morning before dawn, I was on the water, sailing as far out as I could before the guards in the armed towers trained guns on me, and just floated there, watching the sunrise paint the gray sky over my head. I watched the waves and I listened to the gulls and sang to them in the solitude, as loudly and off-key as I wanted to. When day broke and other vessels joined me, I worked quietly, fishing alongside them the way I'd learned my whole life. Sometimes I dove overboard, down into the dark water, on the pretense of untangling a net. I sank so deep I couldn't hear or see a thing and the pressure would crush every miserable thought out of my head. That was how I survived. I thought as little as possible.

The only thing I ever did in my echoing, empty mansion was sleep.

My mother called every day those first six months before my Victory Tour. She wanted to make amends, I suppose, but I never answered and wouldn't have visited without my silver trident. I never thought of my family unless I was plotting my uncle's death and the death of every person that helped him train me.

Didn't you know, this is what a murderer does in his spare time?

I really didn't need anybody. I was sure of it six days out of seven. It was maybe once a week that the loneliness would come over me, so much that it physically hurt. I would somehow end up on Mags' front porch swing overlooking the beach, curled up with my head on my knees with little memory of how I got there. I never ever knocked. I would wait as long as I needed to before she came out and discovered me herself, but it was never very long at all. Mags didn't talk even back when she could, but she'd sit beside me on the swing for hours and watch the tide come in, and rub my back sometimes.

This is burned very clearly in my memory. Mags was the only person who ever touched me.

It should have gotten easier, as the months passed, but it didn't really. I was selling fish in the market one day that first winter, and the smell of cod had just thoroughly soaked into my gloves when I saw the haggard woman watching me from a stall across the street. She seemed elderly at first glance, before I noticed that her hair was only streaked with gray, and the wrinkles were only deep around her eyes. She was still young enough to have a familiar sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

I met Cassandra's mother's eyes for a split second and realized in that moment what it means to have someone truly hate you. If a glare could really torch a person, my remains would have been unrecognizable.

I went back down to the sea that evening, but not to fish. I stood out on the cliffs for hours and watched the icy water churn over the rocks far below, thinking that if I was truly going to follow in my father's footsteps like everybody wanted, that was where I'd end up.

I only walked away because Mags was expecting me for dinner that night, and I was bringing the shellfish to boil. She told me over dessert that she expected fresh shellfish every week, and I had so much free time on my hands now that I had no excuse not to provide it for her.

She also called me her son for the first time that night, off-handedly. I don't know if she still remembers it, but I do. I don't know if she realizes how many times she saved my life.

So the pain of that winter ebbed a bit, and then my Victory Tour came, and I was lifted on the shoulders of Panem and cherished and given the world again. While I was there, I could hide behind Finnick Odair and never have to deal with the mess I had actually become. I decided that despite the hypocrisy of it all, the Capitol was my favorite, numbest place to be.

So when the letter came a year and a half later, I really did laugh. The vague threats against my family and friends and Mags were unnecessary and the whole thing was sort of a joke, because I would have gone anyway. I didn't need to be persuaded. When you're a victor and you know you don't deserve love, you'll take the closest thing you can get.

I changed my mind a day later, but nobody was listening. That's what happens when you volunteer for things you don't understand. There's no going back.

Needless to say, I didn't laugh at Annie's invitation. And as I mount the steps to President Snow's front door and watch the armed guards part in front of me, pat down my pockets, I am not laughing now. Last time I was here, Annie had a flashback and I performed mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a man who has since died by the President's hand. The previous visit, I spent all my time touring the family's personal living quarters, with a particular focus on his niece's suite. The night before, I had watched my mentor crumple to the ground in the ballroom among an unconcerned crowd.

The fact that I'm expecting this to be the worst visit of all says a _lot_.

I am stone-faced and stoic as an attendant leads me through a part of the mansion I've never set foot in before. I follow him down a scarlet-carpeted hallway lined with dozens of larger-than-life bronze statues until we reach a broad set of double doors. The attendant has me wait while he steps inside.

I do not pace. I do not fidget. I must not appear nervous in any way, shape, or form. A lot of lives could depend on how I carry myself right now. I remind myself again and again and again of a fact that I have forgotten in the midst of my 'true lie' of Annie's romance- I am an _incredibly _gifted actor. I am the fourteen-year-old who went out onstage with Caesar Flickerman just ten minutes after having an emotional breakdown and wooed a crowd of thousands with my flippant jokes and my winning smile. I have convinced dozens of women I despise that I love them and only them. Impressionable as they may be, it's still something of an accomplishment. It is _extremely_ rare for me to not have my feelings in check in public.

Unfortunately, every one of those _extremely_ rare times relates back to Annie. And so does this visit.

I turn aside to study the statue nearest the doorway, peer up at its head looming high above me. The face is all too familiar. It's Johanna Mason, mouth twisted in a snarl, wielding a gleaming bronze axe. I cross the hallway and find a Career from Two guarding the opposite side of the doorway with a double-edged sword. I remember that he won the year before Johanna did.

There's a statue for each of us, I realize. I can see my trident glinting a few feet down the hallway and turn away quickly. Somewhere down there I unknowingly walked past a Mags and a Seeder and a Haymitch, and before long, there will be an Annie here, too. The newest addition. And above the arching doorway, a grimly-smiling portrait of Snow hangs over us all.

We look an awful lot like chess pieces.

The door swings open then and an Avox ushers me into Snow's office. His smile behind his desk is as cold as the one in the picture frame and just as painted on. A chill sneaks down my spine, and I realize why he kept me waiting in the hallway for so long. The statues already have me unnerved and we haven't even spoken a word yet.

"Mr. Odair! So good to see you again! Have a seat." The President gestures to a plush velvet chair in front of his desk, and I sit obediently, sliding my mental shields back up, as the Avox brings a tray of beverages. I decline and lean back, folding my hands behind my head, grinning crookedly and making some comment on the strong-scented roses that Snow keeps in a vase on his desk. He dismisses them as out-of-season. We laugh pleasantly and he drops a few sugar cubes into his tea.

And the whole time I'm thinking, _I could kill this man with my bare hands. _If he didn't have a hundred armed guards waiting outside the door and a dozen security cameras sweeping the room and access to everyone that I've ever cared about, it'd be awfully tempting.

"So to what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?" I ask casually, as if it's not the first and only thing gnawing away at my mind. "That pretty little niece of yours due for another birthday already?"

"No, no, but my goodness, she's been begging for you, as if I haven't spoiled her enough for one year!" Snow laughs good-naturedly. "As if I wouldn't already give her the world. But no, oh, she's been absolutely wild over the Games this year. Even more so than usual. The drama, the romance, the _intrigue-_" The President rolls his snake eyes at me, and I shake my head at his silly little niece because I have no clue what else he expects me to do.

"Tell me, Finnick, what did you think of these Games? How would you rate them? On a scale of one to… Twelve-ish?"

I pause in mock-consideration. "Ten," I spout off, just because it was my training score from the Gamemakers, back in the day.

"Ten? _Really? _An _ten?_" Snow's face turns baffled, but every emotion of his is a careful mask, just like mine. "See, what I've found is that the younger, hormonal crowd enjoyed the sentimentality, but those of us who remember the classic years found it- inadequate. _Boring_, if you will. Days of watching and waiting. Natural-looking deaths. And the finale? A flood of- _water_, of all things. Why, remember the year with the acid river-" He cuts himself off, waving a hand. "No, that was before your time, my apologies. Now, granted, this year, there were individual _moments _that were exciting- when your boy lost his head- that really got my heart pumping. Wouldn't you say?"

I nod seriously. "That was intense."

My boy's name was Otto Morris, and when he died I threw up.

"Remember how I bet on him? That ridiculous price. Watching his neck cleaved in two by that blade, I remember thinking to myself, 'Well, what do I do now? Finnick Odair owes me a debt. He owes me a victor.' And honestly, I didn't think the girl would come through. When it came down to her and Seven… well, what did you think would happen?"

I turn that over for a minute. "I didn't see how either of them would make it," I say carefully.

"Precisely! The whole flood was accidental, and you have no idea how close they came to… Annie Cresta's heart stopped twice in the hovercraft, did you hear that?"

No. I was never informed of that. Everything Snow tells me, every little syllable out of his mouth, is carefully calculated to get under my skin. To unhinge me. I don't react, though. I roll my eyes instead.

"She was thinking of me," I say smugly.

Snow ignores my joke, stares down into his coffee mug as if he's very deep in thought. "I _told _Seneca Crane, in case he had forgotten, the victor is why we have the Games. That's the whole point, after all. Do you see us celebrating the fallen? I reminded him for future years that keeping one alive is his most important objective. Crane's very life is tied in with the victor's, you know."

It's a possibility we're never, ever allowed to consider. What if all the tributes died? What then?

"Like Verus' life was tied to his job?" I question innocently.

Snow nods. "Yes, like Verus. Verus, Verus, there were obstacles to his punishment." The President looks up at me and suddenly roars with a wheezing sort of laughter. There's a blast of his breath in my face and my stomach turns. They aren't lying, the scent of blood is unmistakable. "Finnick Odair, you ruin all my plans! Losing the boy, refusing Annie's invitation- and- and- _reviving_ the man I was trying to execute!" He slaps his leg in sheer delight. "You're _destroying_ my life!"

I have no idea what to make of this. The man is losing whatever sanity he possessed in the first place.

"You'll have to excuse me for saving him," I say tightly. "I wasn't aware that I was interfering with your _justice_." The word is scalding and bitter on my tongue.

Snow dabs at his eyes with a hanky. "Oh, of course, you had no idea, I can't blame you for that. It surprised me a bit out of _you_, though, you've always seemed so cold, but Mr. Odair, you have a good heart after all, don't you?"

My eyes narrow at the belittling way he asks this, like a heart is a weakness or a malady or an obstacle to be overcome. "I didn't know," I repeat stoutly.

"No, you really didn't. A simple misunderstanding, don't give it another thought. I think we'd both be a lot happier if all your offenses were so forgivable."

I drop my hands from behind my head, lean forward intently. "Do you think we could cut to the chase here? I just want to talk plain and simple."

He wants Annie and he can't have her. End of story, in my mind.

"Plain and simple," Snow echoes thoughtfully. "That sounds nice, doesn't it? I wonder sometimes, how it is for you, surrounded by the glamour and grandeur of the Capitol. Do you ever get tired of painted faces?" He takes a long swig of his tea, swishes it around in his mouth and I think of blood mixing with it, changing colors. "I racked my brain for whatever makes you care about that plain and simple girl and it's all I can think of."

I don't react to that, either. "Plainly and simply, Annie Cresta and I are not involved. We never have been. From the outset, it's been a publicity stunt. I thought that was fairly obvious from her several broadcasted interviews."

It hasn't been quite so obvious when I'm alone with her. Last night, the way her eyes closed, and the way I almost kissed her and she almost let me… I don't think that's the way a person generally looks at her emotional crutch.

Snow bursts out laughing again in that way that is so much more frightening than the brooding snake I expected. "You think I _care?_ I don't care if you love her!" he crows. "Doesn't bother me a bit. Honestly, don't you think I have better things to do than meddle in your personal love life?" The question is so ridiculous and the answer so convoluted that I don't even try to respond. "I don't see how she's your type, but you two have my blessing. So long as it doesn't interfere with anyone's dutiesto the Capitol, yours _or _Miss Cresta's."

Annie's _duties. _I clear my throat uncomfortably. "The publicity stunt has drawn Annie entirely the wrong sort of attention that her own appearance and abilities don't warrant. She is not physically or mentally fit for the type of work you've cut out for her."

Snow's white eyebrow shoots up and his voice burns like dry ice. "So, plainly and simply, you're refusing what I ask. Again."

My skin crawls. "You receive her doctor's notes, don't you? Of course you do. Her anxiety's through the roof. She cries nonstop some days. And every single night, her nightmares-" I cut off because if I don't love Annie, why would I know about her nightmares?

"She won't be sleeping," he says with certainty. Something wrenches violently inside my stomach.

He must not know that his neck would snap just as easily as Otto's.

"You can't tell me that you _don't know _she's insane!" I snap, voice rising dangerously. "Or she will be, for the rest of her life, if she doesn't get to stay in Four."

President Snow leans forward on his desk, pressing his fingertips together like we're just getting down to business. "If Annie Cresta is mentally ill, then she belongs in an institution here in the Capitol where she can receive the treatment she needs in privacy."

"You'll destroy her," I say darkly. "She needs to go home."

The President heaves a sigh. "You mentors and your attachments to your protégés… Do you have any idea what your mentor put me through three years ago? Before you came here, perfectly willingly, I might add?"

I frown deeply. I wasn't even completely sure that Mags understood the extent of my job, much less that she had fought Snow about it. "Feisty old woman, isn't she?"

He nods gravely. "Yes, yes. Very feisty. You can ask her firsthand about the consequences of being a feisty mentor."

I'm nauseous at the thought of him punishing Mags, over me, for my sake, without my knowledge, and I _still_ don't have any idea what he's done to her. Maybe he's only bluffing. You know, I can bluff, too. I can bluff like I don't have anything to lose, because I'm already losing it.

"If you know she'll be able to work, then you know she can mentor in my place. If Annie stays, I go home," I state. Plainly and simply.

Snow takes a sip of tea, raises his eyebrow curiously. "Excuse me?"

"It's traditional in my district, you know." My voice is slow and easy, a complete turnaround from mere seconds before. As if the thought of leaving Annie alone in the Capitol doesn't trouble me a bit. "The new victor raises the next to take his place as a mentor, and then lives out the rest of his life in the lap of luxury at home. It's the reason a half dozen strong men stayed behind while Mags trained me. They earned their right. And now I'd like to cash in. Take my retirement check, if you will."

Snow laughs again, but his eyes are cold black coal, and it's not the crazed laughter like before. It's anger. Disgust. "You _honestly _told yourself you were going home if you brought in a victor?"

Well, what else do you tell yourself when you're sixteen and watching a stranger walk away with your innocence all folded up neatly in her pockets? That this will be the rest of your life?

I continue as if he hasn't said anything. "Yes, Finnick Odair's outlived his welcome here, don't you think? It's only a matter of time before I'm tossed out with the other old toys and what's that old courtesy? Leave while they still want you to stay? As opposed to staying too long and having everyone sick of you…" I trail off because I've been waiting for the President to interrupt me, and he hasn't yet.

"Oh, Finnick, you don't want to quit the best job you've ever had," Snow says icily, holding my gaze. "Not when you have a family to support."

The implication is obviously not financial, but I play along, to buy time, to think my way out of this one. "My family has never seen a penny of my money," I say, and I don't have to force my lip to curl. "I haven't seen or spoken to any of them in five years."

It's the first time it ever strikes me how long five years is, and how much longer ignoring them forever will be. But now's not the time for considering regrets because as long as I seem cold toward my family, Snow might believe the true-ish lie that I really don't care what he does to them.

"No, I suppose you wouldn't have, not after your mother, of all people, told you that hideous lie, and sent you here. She sold you first, you know." The President shakes his white head in mock sympathy. "When will people ever stop treating one another like cattle?"

I still have a wall up in my mind to prevent this lunatic's twisted psychology from sinking in, and his comments have been bouncing off harmlessly but now it's starting to crack.

"It explains a lot, why Mags is your mother."

_Mags. _My face is steady, but I feel those walls pulled down now, brick by brick. Snow's made the pain of everything fresh again, Otto's death and almost losing Annie and almost losing Mags and my family's betrayal. He's rubbing my nose in the fact that he can kill the people I love and the ones that I should love and he knows I'd never be able to get out from under the guilt.

If he kills my mother, she would die without ever hearing a word from me.

"You have so much power," I begin slowly. "That I fully believe you're mad with it."

The president just raises his eyebrows, as if he's generously granting me that assumption.

"You can do anything you want. Absolutely anything. But remember you'll have to deal with the consequences, too. You can kill my family, and then what?" My voice quivers as I try to keep from screaming. "You can kill them and leave me here, and then what would you do with another truly insane victor?" I hope he realizes that I'm not bluffing now. Not in the slightest. "I would lose my mind, Mr. President. I would make some mad attempt on my life, or possibly yours, and end up locked up in a cold, dark cell until the day I die, a lonely, raving lunatic."

Snow plucks a red rose out of the vase on his table and clips off the end of the stem with a pair of scissors, delicately fingering the petals. "You have a thing or two to learn about threatening other people," he says absently, replacing the flower with great care.

Maybe, maybe not.

"You break me, and then what happens?" I lean forward and continue in a hiss. "We find out you're not the only one with power. Finnick Odair breaks down, Finnick Odair disappears, Finnick Odair quits doing birthday parties and people start asking questions. A thousand beautiful, rich women will be asking questions, and they won't accept whatever nonsense you feed them about my withdrawal from society."

Snow snatches up another rose, this one pure white and fragile-looking, and trims it carefully. From the glint in his eyes, I know I have his rapt attention, even his concern. I think he sees the truth in what I'm saying.

"They _want _me. They'll miss me. They'll dig for facts, and then what will they find? That the people I cared for mysteriously died, and you think they won't put together, 'Wow, didn't the exact same thing happen to Johanna Mason? Didn't the same thing happen to _Haymitch Abernathy?_' Do you think they'll notice a pattern? They start asking questions that you don't have the answers to." My hands grasp the edge of the desk, slippery with sweat. "And I don't think you want that to happen."

"How would you suggest we prevent this?" the President asks me calmly.

"Reinforce everyone on the list that I am protecting. My mother. Her sister. Her sister's kids. Mags. And add Annie Cresta and any family or friends affiliated with her," I recite, then force out, "And we discuss whatever necessary changes must be made in my agreement, so I can fulfill all of my _responsibilities_ properly. Otherwise, I'm out of here, and I'm taking my power with me."

Snow's eyes shift up and finally meet mine. His voice is low and tight and deadly. "You think you have that kind of power here?" It's the same ridiculing tone he used to ask if I honestly thought I could ever leave the Capitol.

I know I have power here. I just don't know if it's anywhere close to enough.

We're at an impasse. A standstill. In this great game of chess, I've used every piece I have and I've only achieved a stalemate.

There are footsteps in the hallway then, and I'm sure it's Peacekeepers come to drag me off to the padded room they've prepared, because this conversation with Snow is threatening to literally drive me off the deep end. But the door creaks open, and a head of jet-black hair peeks inside.

"Uncle?" Cassandra calls. Cassandra, Miss Cassandra Snow, the President's niece, just the person I'd love to see right now.

"A little busy right now, sweetheart," Snow grunts, and the term of affection sounds disturbingly genuine. She must not be very afraid of him, because she steps into the room anyway and then stops shorts when she sees me.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't realize you had… company." Cassandra's china face flushes, and it strikes me as strange to see her without make-up, tangled hair hanging down her shoulders. It's nearly noon but she's still dressed in a simple, thin nightgown. She sees me studying her and turns to go, obviously embarrassed that I've caught her looking so natural like this.

"Baby, come back," I plead. "Baby, where are you going?" Cassandra pauses with her hand on the doorknob and glances back at me hopefully. "Come here. Just for a minute, I want to talk to you. Oh, Cassandra, baby, I've been waiting for this for so long." She paces back over to me, and I pat my lap. A huge grin spreads across her face as my arms encircle her waist.

"It's good to see you again, Fin-"

I immediately stop her lips with mine. She lets me. Of course she does. Cassandra was the last girl I kissed before the Games, and I'd forgotten about the women entirely during the trauma. But the old Finnick Odair takes over immediately, and this is easy. I remember how to kiss somebody and kiss her passionately until she's about to explode and die from it, and the whole time feel nothing really at all.

It's several minutes before we hear the President clear his throat loudly, and we break apart. "That was amazing," I purr into Cassandra's ear.

"I learned from the best," she whispers back.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you," I hiss, and the air is still hanging heavy between us. "You haunt me, you know, every day I've been away, I see your face- I see your face in my dreams and I- you're the most beautiful girl I've ever met."

The old man's face is flushed red with irritation and he's looking pointedly at me. This is exactly what I was intending, to rattle him, but I sort of can't believe it worked. I hate the fact that my heart is pounding and that this young niece is looking at me like I'm her hero. "I love you," I blurt out, and I hate myself because her eyes are shining like she honestly, honestly believes me.

I wonder if this girl will ever move on and have a normal life, a normal boyfriend.

"I love you, too," Cassandra sighs. She looks a whole lot younger than eighteen when she says it. She doesn't look a day older than Annie.

What exactly am I doing? Ruining one girl to save another?

It's the Capitol, I have to remind myself, to push forward. They would ruin her somehow anyway. "I'm coming back for you," I whisper, intentionally loud enough that Snow can overhear. "After the parties and everything in Four. You owe me a second date, young lady!" I mock-scold her, tapping the end of her nose affectionately.

I've never had a second date before in my life.

"We have to get Annie settled in there, though," I add. "She's still very sick, you know."

Cassandra sighs in sympathetic shock. "Of course, of course. Poor, plain little girl. They say she's mad."

"I know. And you know what?" I whisper somberly. "They're right."

The little princess gasps. "No kidding?"

I press another kiss to her cheek. "No kidding. She screams like a banshee all night and she tears her skin." Cassandra shakes her head sadly, and I can feel the President's eyes boring holes in me. "I say the sooner she's out of sight here in the Capitol, the better. And the sooner I'm back with you…" I stroke the girl's cheek.

"How long?" Cassandra whimpers.

"Two days. Three at the most. And then I'm all yours," I promise seriously, taking both her hands in mine, kissing them fervently. "_All_ yours." I look over at the President then and glare at him triumphantly.

_See, you can't lose me._

"That's quite enough to tide her over, Mr. Odair," he says coldly.

"Of course." I gently nudge his niece off my lap. "What can I say, sir. They love me." I shrug helplessly and my smile is smug.

_Don't you see, I am not expendable anymore._

"Yes," President Snow hisses, clipping a rose stem down the middle so it forks like a snake tongue. "You come back in three days, and we'll see just how much they love you." It takes a few seconds for this to register, and my blood runs cold. Could this really be happening? Did I just win this battle of wits with President Snow?

I don't feel like I've won much of anything.

"You are excused, Mr. Odair." Snow nods toward the doors. "Many of us will eagerly await your return."

I give Cassandra one last peck on the lips- I decide then that I will save a kiss on the cheek for Annie, always- and turn and walk out of those big double doors. With each step, I feel the fire coming back into my body and thawing out my blood until it's boiling.

What have I just done? I have just sold my soul.

I sold my soul for Annie, and she's worth it, but nothing will ever be right as long as this is necessary to protect her. Nothing will be right as long as we have to be apart. A hundred pairs of hollow bronze victors' eyes follow me down the hallway, but none of them burn me more than Johanna's. What did she tell me about a rebellion?

_You want your happily-ever-after?_

My eyes lock on the gleaming eight-foot-long trident in the hand of that giant statue of me. Snow was a fool for letting them send me that. He was a fool for teaching me how to use it.

_That doesn't happen until Snow- is- dead!"_

Then let one last person die by my hand.

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><p><strong>Cassandra unwittingly saves the day! :D Oh, I hit 100,000 words on Microsoft Word last night! (That's not including author's notes on here) So this is the longest thing I've ever written by, like, many words. So many milestones... :')<br>**


	32. Understood

**Welcome back! :) I should clear a few things up before I get started, about the length of this story... I am planning on two more chapters after this and then an epilogue. And no, I will not cram the entire 74th and 75th Hunger Games and Mockingjay into them. :) This story is only the tippy beginning of Finn and Annie's story and I could never come close to sufficiently telling the whole thing, although I'd love to spent the rest of my student career trying. But it's probably about time to wrap up and move on. :'( :') Mixed emotions...  
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**I've been writing and rewriting this scene for a week and I just need to post it and accept the fact that it won't ever be perfect. Finnick deals with his demons. Welcome to fluffy angst... angsty fluff?  
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* * *

><p>I make it all the way back to the training center elevator and ride nearly up to the fourth floor before the nausea hits.<p>

The burning rage that is fueling me seeps out at last and I start to wonder what exactly I've accomplished in my private meeting with Snow. I am still a slave. I'm still trapped. The only difference is that now, there are even more lives intertwined with mine, trapped with me. Depending on me. And if I screw up-

I'm queasy. Queasy in my stomach and my mind and my heart. I skirt my way around all of Annie and Pallindra's many questions- I never told them where I was going, just disappeared long before breakfast this morning- and the act isn't quite over until I've shut my bedroom door with a slam. I sink down onto the mattress, mind flitting and distracted and panicky to near-Annie levels. The conversation starts replaying on a loop in my head until I know every word of Snow's by heart and my breathing is shallow with anger. I end up sitting cross-legged on the bed, hunched over a thick length of rope, intently working it into knots almost as tight and tangled as the ones forming in my gut. They call me for lunch and just the thought makes me want to throw up.

"Come on out!" Annie hollers from the hallway.

"Not hungry!" I unthread my knot and start again, fingers flying with a feverish intensity.

"It's gonna get cold…"

I hear Pallindra chiding Annie outside the door, telling her to leave me alone because I'm probably just hung over and grouchy. But something in my voice must have betrayed me, because my door creaks open anyway. "Finnick." I don't look up, but Annie's voice is more direct, like she's poked her head into the room. "You didn't eat dinner last night."

I only grunt in response, holding up another loop for inspection. I can't remember last night. Last night was an eternity ago. I'm only vaguely aware of how sweet it is that Annie's noticed this when even I didn't. I'm scared out of my mind and very selfishly scared, because judging from the good President's words, it's not her family who will be bearing the brunt of our punishment. It's me. Just like I wanted. Like I negotiated for. But all this time I've spent working through the idea of leaving Annie, I haven't given much thought to what I'll have to do after that.

I don't feel well at all.

"You need to eat something, Finnick," Annie says with the same combination of concern and firm insistence she wielded on a measled Otto in the arena. Neither of us stood a chance.

I pull the rope taut again and rub my forehead wearily. "I don't think I can," I mutter. "Don't feel so great."

The end of the bed sinks down suddenly, and her gaze is boring into me. I finally drop the rope and, only because it's Annie, glance up, let her see just how sick and tired and terrified I really am. Her eyes go soft when ours meet, only because it's Annie, and she knows what it's like to be so afraid that you're physically ill.

Annie lays a hand on my knee. "When are you going to tell me what's going on with you?" she asks quietly.

I can still smell the blood on his breath.

"My stomach hurts," I answer in a dull voice, and she sighs heavily beside me. She was, of course, asking about the root of the issue, but I will never, ever, ever burden Annie with that. I can't help feeling that the room is colder when she gets up and leaves again.

I untangle. Start again. Try not to think of her tears when I said I was leaving. Try not to think of Cassandra's glowing face, or our second date, or Snow exhaling blood in my face…

Wish the thread I'm hanging onto was as thick as this rope.

Annie reappears, and I hear her padding footsteps come to sit beside me again. She takes my rope away without a word, presses a plate of plain dry toast into one of my hands and a mug of something hot, probably tea, into the other. I stare down into it uncomprehendingly.

"Good for tummy aches," Annie says teasingly. "Be good and you might even get a sugar cube."

I try to laugh but can't quite manage it. Then her fingers sneak forward, brush against my cheek lightly. Annie rubs a thumb across the dark circle under my eye, and I see sadness etched on her face. "I'm worried about you," she whispers.

A pang shoots through my heart, and it's a cruel irony that after everything, _Annie _ends up worried about _me_. And I told her not to, but here she is doing it anyway. I force myself up straight and take the plate onto my lap. "It's nothing to worry about," I insist. She keeps watching me until I take a hesitant bite of the toast and realize that I'm actually very hungry after all.

Pallindra calls her for something then and she doesn't stay to watch me eat. Annie stands, then reaches out and pushes the hair off my forehead, presses her lips against it gently. I close my eyes and let warmth flood through me, relaxing my tense muscles for just a moment. My stomach actually unclenches long enough to flutter.

I think of that gold watch and how they will give me anything in the world that they think I want, but who else would ever bring me dry toast?

It's actually the sight of that elegant timepiece that brings me back around again. I'm just polishing off the plain bitter tea when an Avox knocks on my door and waits for my permission to breeze inside. He silently goes to work packing for me. Oh, that's right. We leave first thing in the morning.

We both hear the clunking sound when he jerks open the bottom drawer of my dresser, and he rummages around in the back of it, pulls out the watch. The man wears a look of muted shock when he sees the treasure I've stashed like I'm ashamed of it.

"What time is it?" I call out, and, not really in the mood for charades, he brings the watch to me. I fasten it to my arm again, swinging my legs out of bed. The day is half over and at dawn tomorrow, we pull out of the station for Four. The thought of only so many more hours with Annie has me recovered enough to rejoin the others in the kitchen. There will be time to hurt later.

"So what's the plan for today?" Annie asks Pallindra matter-of-factly as I pull out the chair beside her. She takes my hand under the table and squeezes it gently, and I know it's still obvious to her how much I'm fighting off my demons right now. Moments like this, I can't understand how anybody thinks _she's_ the crazy one.

"Our bags are being packed as we speak." Pallindra gestures to the busily working Avoxes in the hallway. "And then we're going to say farewell to Mags. She's staying here in the rehabilitation center for a time."

Annie's lips press together in a hard line. Everyone is staying behind in the Capitol after I've promised her that District Four will be all she really needs to heal. A month ago, when I pictured retiring to my mansion in Four after Otto won the Games, Mags remaining in the Capitol's hospital was the worst thing I could imagine. Now, it's my only real comfort. But Annie won't get to see her anymore, so we have to go say our good-byes.

I _hate_ saying good-byes.

* * *

><p>Mags is sitting up waiting for Annie and me when we enter, eyes glittering like she's eager to unwrap a birthday present. I pull up the folding chair beside her hospital bed, and Annie immediately snuggles in under the covers with her. Her deep-sea eyes are already welling up, so I'm not surprised when Mags kisses us both and then turns to me with a fake-stern expression, pointing to the door. "Go," she orders. I laugh and give them a few minutes of privacy, thinking that I can't imagine either of my girls in better hands.<p>

It's only ten minutes before Annie emerges again, but I'm fidgeting restlessly because I hate waiting rooms more than almost anything now. She's swabbing at tears but trying to smile at me. "Your turn."

I reenter Mags' room, a little more hesitantly now without Annie, because she looks even older and wiser and more exhausted than I've ever seen her, and the last time we talked, I screamed and threw things. I must be the biggest idiot alive to not have the utmost respect for this woman, even for a moment. This woman who, according to Snow, has given up more for me than I'll probably ever know. But she smiles gently and I go and sit beside her, take her bony, wrinkled hand. Her grip is still like iron. She has always been so much stronger than me.

Why did I ever think strength was brutal?

"I'm really stupid," I tell my mentor simply. "Did you know that?" The skin around her eyes crinkles merrily. "Of course you do," I continue with a snort. "You know everything. You knew that I… you knew Annie and me…"

Mags cuts me off with a finger to her lips, eyes still gleaming mischievously. She hands me a folded up sheet of paper and nods to it expectantly. I hesitantly open it and read the childlike scrawl that expresses what her tongue can't now.

_He says things when he thinks I can't hear…_

_Sometimes when I cry, he cries, too…_

_I really wish I understood-_

The little note cuts off abruptly, and I look up from what I'm sure are Annie's words about me. "Mags-" I begin, feeling guilty for invading her privacy now that I've actually succeeded.

She shakes her head, tangled white hair clinging to the pillow. "Trust me," Mags whispers. She holds my gaze seriously. "Trust _her_."

"But-" I protest again.

Mags breaks out in another grin. "No Derek," she hisses, and her head is bobbing up and down commandingly, like she expects me to nod along. She's waiting for me to remember something I haven't forgotten, that she's never, ever nodded to a girl before and she never will again.

I smile in spite of myself. "Quit trying to set me up with people," I whisper, bending down to kiss her cheek. "Don't you think I get enough of that?"

She points out the door to where Annie waits for me. I obediently turn to leave, but not before I break an unspoken rule I've always had, about never telling her things she already knows.

I tell Mags I love her, because even if she knows everything it's wrong that she's never heard it before.

Annie and I exchange an amused look as Pallindra breezes past me into the hospital room to say good-bye. Who knows what that Capitol lady is going to deem important to say to Mags? I take a seat beside Annie and clear my throat thickly. "I'm going to miss seeing that old buzzard," I mutter without thinking it through first.

Annie nods slowly, weaves her fingers together in her lap. "Will you come home when she does?" she asks, glancing up off-handedly, trying to bury her eagerness.

I bite my lip. "Annie-" And then we're both looking away again.

_Trust her, _Mags urges me.

Doesn't she know that's the scariest thing I can imagine?

* * *

><p>The last night we spend in the Capitol, I'm dragged out of my nightmares by Annie's.<p>

Her screams echoes, ragged and chilling, down the hall, until I hear them coming from all directions- slipping out from beneath Otto's door, too. Pallindra emerges from her bedroom moments after I sneak out of mine, and we exchange a tired-eyed look in the hallway. She seems extremely relieved when I tell her to go back to sleep and let me deal with this. I suppose she trusts me more than she'd admit.

I find my chickadee curled up in her closet, cocooned in a fuzzy blue blanket like she's hiding from an earthquake with Willow again. When I pull it down off her head, she's trembling, gasping for air. I bend down in front of the open door and hold a hand out slowly, so I don't startle her. "You had a dream," I whisper calmly, though I'm not sure it wasn't a full-blown flashback instead.

Her reply is a single, strangled word- _blood_- and then she's scratching at her arms hysterically, trying to cleanse herself of something that isn't there. The sight tears at me, too. I wrestle both her hands away and kiss them hard. "It's over, Annie. It's over forever."

Her eyes meet mine, wild and terrified, and they're a rippled reflection of the beauty that's there when Annie's home in them. "Get me out of here," she hisses.

I pick her up bride-style, carry her out to the living room couch, blanket and all. Hush her, rub her back because she's not breathing deeply enough. Three o'clock comes and goes before I'm convinced she's got enough air.

"It was so real." Annie's voice is fraying at the edges, and I know that if she doesn't sleep, her mind won't be able to fight this off any better tomorrow.

"I know it was," I whisper, suddenly exhausted, too. "But it'll fade. Even the worst memories fade."

Annie's head jerks up off my shoulder, and her words are so rushed and jumbled and frantic it takes me a moment to piece them together correctly. "It wasn't a memory. I wasn't remembering. I saw- it was you. Your blood. You died." She sucks in air and buries her face in my chest again, shakily repeating, "You died. You died."

There's a long silence as this sinks in like a knife in my heart, and I pull Annie up against me so tightly that it must hurt both of us, but it would hurt so much more to let go.

"Don't leave." Annie balls my night shirt up in her fists. "Don't _leave!_" And this time her voice breaks.

I can't speak a word around the lump in my throat, so the only sounds in the dim living room are her breathing steadying as her mind clears and a hundred doomsday cannons thundering in my head. I really don't want to talk about this. I would really rather do anything else at the moment. But Annie's face is flushed bright red and her eyes flash with reality- and _anger_- when she looks up at me again, so I know that's precisely where we're headed.

"Finnick, _why_ can't you stay in Four?"

And here I am, having that one conversation I never planned to have with Annie. Deep down, I know I owe a better explanation than the one I've given her. _I don't belong in Four anymore. _It's a lie. Home is wherever Annie is.

"I'm sorry. I thought you understood," I say evenly. As if she's been able to properly process anything since her life was ripped apart and sewn haphazardly back together again. Annie's been holding onto me so tightly since she came out of the Games, and I think it's just now sinking in that we're going to have to let each other go.

"You can't," she hisses hotly. "You can't come back here. I thought- I thought you wanted to go home. I can't-" Her voice breaks again, and she turns a pleading gaze on me. "Finnick, please come back with me. I… I think I might need you."

The sincerity that pushes it out, the fragility splintering the cracks in her eyes, sends fresh pain coursing through me. "You don't need me," I insist. "I promise you don't. You'll have your family there to take care of you."

"But I'm _afraid_," Annie whispers, fingers curling around my shoulder anxiously. "I'm so afraid to see my family again. I'm- I'm different now, and every time I come out of a flashback I think… I think how much I don't ever want them to see me like that."

Her expression is so haunted, I can't resist taking her hands in mine. "No, Annie, you've got to believe me, they just want you back. In any form," I whisper, tucking hair behind her ear. "That's the thing. When you love somebody, you take them any way they are."

Annie nods slowly. She hesitantly trusts me. I sit and talk her through the deep, calming-breath routine her psychiatrist taught her, and the minutes are long before she's steady enough to speak again.

"But you hurt here," Annie says simply.

I feel myself immediately stiffen, and I'm suddenly too rigid to be holding something fragile like Annie. I gently ease her off my lap, slip into the next room on the pretense of getting her a glass of water. In the safety of the kitchen, I lean against the counter and stare down into the shiny steel sink and just let the cup overflow over my fingers for several minutes.

I don't realize how long I'm gone until I hear Annie's bare feet padding out on the cold tile. She's twisting the fabric of her nightgown nervously and looking decidedly downward.

"I'm sorry," Annie begins heavily, and I hurriedly shut off the faucet and step forward so I can catch her every hushed word. "I'm tired. I'm selfish. I misunderstood, I thought- Well, it's your life and if you want to live here-"

"I don't want this," I hiss, closing her hands around the glass, needing her to understand. "Please, Annie, I don't want to leave you. I just-"

I should really just tell her. It would be better for her to know the real reason I have to stay, and that I am not _willingly_ doing all the things I will inevitably be doing. But I can't bring myself to say it. I don't think I could handle the look in her eyes.

"You just what?" Annie recoils ever so slightly, and she's angry again. She's trying not to be, but she can't disguise things like that. "Tell me what it is here that you can't live without. I thought it was Mags and that was sweet and that was noble but- I don't understand now. The parties? The- the- rhinestones…" She presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, tongue tied at the forbidden subject of those women. "You said you _hated_ rhinestones!"

"I _do!_" I snap. I'm getting defensive for no good reason. "Annie, I don't have a choice. I… I work here in the Capitol."

"You _work_ here?" Annie's voice is shrill with disbelief, because we both know that a victor has never needed a paycheck. I back up and start again.

"It's not a real… it's sort of a job, it's… publicity. Remember how I told you it's all publicity? I don't want to, but if I don't, something will happen to… to my family. Something will happen to Mags." I leave Annie and her family off the list. It'd be great if I didn't send her over the edge here. "I have to stay here and act… like…"

I trail off because something in her face has changed. Her eyes widen in realization, and the hand that presses to her mouth is shaking. "Those girls pay for you."

Those words drop and crash on the kitchen tile.

I can't do this anymore. There's an old numbness creeping in, and I sink into a chair with my face in my hands. My silence must confirm it. I hear Annie start sobbing beside me, but I don't do anything about it. That's when I know just how much I hate myself, because this is the first time I ever remember missing a chance to comfort her. I hate myself, but suddenly I know that I can't stand to look her in the eye.

I never thought I cared what anybody thought of me, but then, Annie's not even close to just anybody.

"I'm sorry." Annie finally cracks the invisible wall between us with a gasp of an apology. I wish she was angry about it, or still bewailing the fact that she won't get to see me anymore. But no, the _pity _in her voice has me bristling. It's a useless thing, pity, and I've never wanted it. I sure as heck don't want to make her cry like this. I want to maintain the slipping control that I've always pretended to have over everything. The overwhelming urge hits me to point out to Annie that no number of tears or apologies has ever helped before.

That's when I realize she's the first person to ever apologize.

She repeats herself, and this time I get out, "It's fine. You didn't know." My voice is flat and hollow and aching.

"But I should have," Annie sniffles. "There are rumors about the victors-" She cuts herself off with a sound that's half sob and half swear word. "You were _fourteen-_"

"It wasn't until later." I mean it to sound reassuring, but it doesn't really.

"Finnick." I don't take my eyes off the cold tile between my feet, but my peripheral vision still catches Annie sliding out of her chair, kneeling down in front of me. "Finnick, look at me."

She's sensed that this is exactly what I'm trying to avoid. "_Look _at me." Annie finally lays both hands on my knees. The gesture is firm enough that I shift my gaze upward, knowing that her expression will probably kill me.

I was wrong. It's not pity. Annie is making no attempt to blot at the tears that are streaming down her cheeks, but her eyes are bright, bright green with something much bigger and stronger and fiercer than pity. Her hands tighten on my knees. "You know you don't deserve it, don't you?" she whispers intently.

The question hangs in the air between us for a long moment. Then the pain floods back in out of nowhere, except it's not all pent up in my stomach now, it's everywhere at once, and my face is in my hands again.

Because I'm not sure of that at all.

"_Finnick_…" Annie starts crying harder than ever. The sound I make can't technically be called crying. There are no tears, just these sharp little choking gasps that come out of someplace so deep and so dark I didn't even know it existed before Annie. She climbs up into my lap and wraps her arms around my neck, just like every other time I hold her when she cries, but she's running her hands through my hair and it's very, very different. I finally calm down enough to hear that tonight, she's the one hushing me.

"It's impossible to tell what's real here," Annie begins in a low voice, pressing my head against her shoulder. Her lips ruffle the hair beside my ear when she speaks. "Impossible. I killed a girl in the arena and there's a little voice in my head that tells me constantly that's what I am, I'm a heartless murderer and I'm insane and I don't deserve to be alive."

Her voice teeters on hysterical, or maybe I'm the one losing my mind because I'm sure she keeps pausing to kiss the top of my head. "And if I didn't have somebody to tell me _every single day_ that wasn't true, I'd believe it. Sometimes I still do." She takes my face in both her hands and forces our eyes together again, hers wet and brimming and mine painfully dry. "You aren't who they say you are. Do you hear me? You are the first thing I remember waking up every morning in the hospital and I only ever hear your voice when I'm gone and I see you when there aren't any cameras. You have only ever been good and kind to me."

I'm rubbing my temples in confusion because maybe it's true, she sees sides of me that nobody else does, and I am as good and kind to her as I know how to be. But I still think she is the thing that makes me that way.

"Even if you can't stay in Four I need you to hear this," Annie pleads. "I need somebody to tell me what's real every single day, but maybe I will only get to say this to you once. This place isn't real. Who you are here isn't you. I know it's not. I've known since training."

My hands squeeze my temples tighter, and Annie pulls one of them away, presses my palm to her cheek. I absently wipe a tear off it with my thumb. "It's your turn to say something," Annie says wearily, as if she's thoroughly worn herself out with that speech. All that, and I still don't know if I can force a single word out.

I swallow hard and try. "I think I'm going to lose my mind when I have to leave you."

Annie's lips twist in the tiniest ghost of a smile. She knows. Maybe she always has. "That's the thing about losing your mind for a while," she whispers, leaning forward to rest her forehead on mine. I don't know if I'm breathing. "It makes a world of difference, having someone to come back to."

And that sounded like a promise, but I can't accept that kind of promise from Annie. I'm taking her back home and that's that, it's final, but there's something I can't quite shake, some remnant of this conversation that is worming its way under my skin, tugging at my heart. And we're all screwed now, because I finally recognize that thing in her eyes that isn't pity.

I really do cry then, because it looks like love.

* * *

><p><strong>Annie Cresta, demon slayer. Well, that was an emotional roller coaster, but it was pretty interesting to see them have the closest thing to a fight since the infamous pepper incident... :) :) :) Prepare for the end of their frustratingly-not-together-ness... :D<strong>


	33. Four

**I'm back! So sorry to keep you all waiting, the combination of school and writer's block is brutal! I think I can promise that won't happen again, considering we only have one more chapter to go... And an epilogue, of course. :') :'( Also, thank you guys SO much for understanding, the little encouraging reviews to the author's notes were so sweet. :) :) :) *warm fuzzies***

**So... here's a chapter. I tried to make up for the delay by making it super long. As usual, I have no clue why I crammed half the stuff I did into it, but here we get to meet Annie's family, Finnick's family and... Derek.  
><strong>

**We meet Derek.  
><strong>

**DON'T KILL ME!**

* * *

><p>Annie and I have a horrible, wonderful, terrible, beautiful secret.<p>

I drift awake on the wings of crying seagulls, and pieces slowly fall into place- the sound effects from the picture window Annie and I turned on last night, the living room couch I'm lying on, the warmth where there used to be a stabbing pain in my heart. Annie's still half-asleep, sitting up with her chin cupped in her hand and her elbow on the arm rest. My head is in her lap, and she's stroking through my hair absently with the other hand, even with her eyes closed. This is where we cried ourselves to sleep last night. Or maybe I should say we cried each other to sleep. With a sinking feeling I realize that I forced Annie to be strong for me.

I'm sure of our little secret when her eyes flutter open, and they're soft and warm and _safe_. She didn't mind being brave last night. I remember that from her Games, that sometimes the only thing that can keep you stable is being an anchor for someone you…

Someone you…

We don't say it. Not with our lips, anyway. Our puffy eyes tell an entirely different story.

"Well, good morning, sleeping beauty," Annie whispers with a mischievous smile, leaning back to stretch with both arms in the air. I protest groggily and pull her hand back down to play with my hair again. Like I'm affection starved or some other sort of irony. She just laughs and glances at the ocean scene in the picture window. "Guess where we're going today."

I turn to watch the waves crashing in, sucking a bit of shore back with them. I wish they were already real and wet and salty in front of us. "I always thought it would be kind of fun to go to the beach with you…" I murmur, voice still thick with sleep.

Annie's eyebrows twitch. "Oh, _always? _ Since when?"

"Day One," I admit sheepishly. It could mean a lot of things, the day of her Reaping or the day I saw her off into the Games or the first day of her recovery.

We've had a lot of Day Ones together. This might be another.

Her expression softens again, and she curls her finger around the hair at the nape of my neck. "You're precious," Annie whispers earnestly.

And I've been called nearly everything, but definitely never that.

Even Pallindra must suspect our little secret when she breezes out to the living room a half hour later. She simply shakes her head at us and wanders into the kitchen, muttering to herself about needing coffee. She doesn't lecture. She knows we haven't done anything, and that's most likely the problem, that I'm a completely different person with Annie.

With Pallindra comes a flurry of excitement in the apartment, Avoxes and attendants bustling around, carrying bags, following her shrill instructions for shipping them from the training center to the limousine to the train. I don't think Annie and I feel quite the same rush to get going that everyone else does. It's not that we dread leaving the Capitol or want to ignore Pallindra's orders to _hurry up_, it's just that it takes me a little longer to eat breakfast left-handed. We haven't exactly gotten our fingers sorted through yet. But somehow or another, she shoos us out the door and it gets slammed behind us. And we leave what will be my home-away-from-home forever, and the site of one last nightmare for Annie during her Victory Tour next winter.

Camera flashes intensify the bright daylight as soon as the limo door is jerked open at the station. I have to drop Annie's hand, and her eyes go blank, shutting out the reporter's questions almost immediately. But I smile and blow kisses and wave broadly, sun glittering on the watch I've chosen to wear, lest my dear Miss Cynthia should catch me without it. I don't see her, but a hundred other identical friends of hers crowd around me and make the short walk to the train depot a frantic swim upstream, with many pauses for autographs and fits of _I touched him! I touched him!_ Annie has been forgotten.

Until I hear the shriek from her waiting spot beside the train doors. I drop a marker halfway through signing a woman's navel and push through the maze of altered bodies. Her little natural one is doubled over, crumpled to her knees, hands plastered firmly to the sides of her head.

_Oh, no._ I have no idea what set her off, but it kills me that I have to content myself with squeezing Annie's arm, standing nearby with a look of _mild _concern while Pallindra helps her up the steps to our train car. "Sorry," I announce to our fans, not too apologetically. "But we need to be going. I'll see that she's taken care of."

Their collective sigh blows me aboard the train. I rush to where Annie's slumped in a seat in the dining car, shoulders heaving, face buried in her hands. "Baby, what's wrong?" I murmur with much more than _mild _concern, and I bite my tongue when I hear the term of affection I've used by instinct. "Annie, _Annie, _talk to me…"

Her head shoots up immediately and her eyes meet mine, dry and completely calm. "You're welcome," Annie says with a wry smile, standing up and rising on tiptoe to kiss my cheek lightly. I'm too stunned to even scold her for scaring me.

She is the most stunning person I know.

"Don't do that again," I start to say, but she takes my hand again and it's all forgotten. Annie turns the watch on my wrist and studies it, lips pursed in thought.

"A gift?" she asks.

"Something like that," I mutter. It's not so much that I'm ashamed for her to know now, this just isn't something I can talk about with any degree of comfort. I sigh heavily. "It _is _a nice watch."

Annie shakes her head gravely. "Someone _grossly_ overestimated it in the appraisal."

"But it'd feed a hundred families in Four," I counter, throwing her own words back at her.

"That's _my _job this year," Annie corrects. "As victor." Her eyebrows scrunch together and the most innocent wicked gleam I've ever seen comes into her eyes. "Let's smash it. _Pallindra!_" she calls. "Do you have a hammer?"

Oh goodness gracious, _no- she- does- not._

When we stop to refuel in Eight that evening, the watch never returns, but there is a satisfying crunch on the train tracks when we pull out again. The two of us rebels giggle and hold each other for a long time.

Precious. Doesn't it mean a whole lot more than valuable?

* * *

><p>It's not surprising that Annie is the sort of person who calls everyday things miracles.<p>

Our train finally zips out of the night's forest cover into the first rays of daylight, and we get our first glimpse of Four- a glint of sunrise on the morning's high tide. A sparkle on waves that doesn't quite parallel the one in her eyes. And Annie's eyes definitely have waves today. The tracks turn and curve along the shore for many miles, and she just sits there by the tiny round window and watches and cries and cries, because she never thought she would see it again.

The boy who rode this train home five years ago looked everywhere she did and never saw any miracles. But being with Annie is seeing the world through completely different lenses. I see a miracle now, only not the everyday sort. It's the kind of miracle that only happens once, and then it's gone.

"We're so close," Annie whispers after a long hour has passed, wiping her eyes fiercely. "We're so close now. You're going to meet my family." She looks over at me, startled, and her eyebrows knit together. "Oh, _Finnick, _you're going to meet my _family_." We both realize at the same moment how terribly uncomfortable this will be, and I try not to imagine what sort of story has been broadcast here in Four. What sort of reputation we have earned.

"This is going to be interesting," she muses, breathless with nervous laughter.

"No matter what, Annie," I begin seriously, grasping her arms. "You don't let this change anything. You don't let _them -_" I point toward the back of the train, and therefore at the Capitol behind us. "You don't let them take your family away from you."

She nods slowly. "What about you?"

What about me? I raise an eyebrow in question. I'm being taken away no matter what.

"Your family," Annie explains. "Are you ever going to talk to them again?"

When I shrug halfheartedly, her tone turns pleading. "_Don't_ be alone." I'm startled by her intensity, and so Annie makes an effort to smile. "Okay?" she says lightly.

I agree. Of course I do.

You know, miracles only come every so often in District Four. I was the last one, five years ago, and I turned out to be something between a miracle and a curse. Sure, I brought my district food and fame, but I also shamed nearly everyone outside of the wealthy Career circle. Not to mention that there are several families of several tributes that I would never like to encounter again. But the scarcity of a cause for a celebration means that District Four didn't spare any Capitol-paid expenses. We see banners stream by the windows and lights twinkling all the way up in the meeting square. I'm sure they've even polished the fish-stained boardwalk for the occasion.

Then the train grinds to a halt in the station, and the doors are pulled open, and Annie hesitates. I step out and motion her forward beside me, shutting my eyes against the gawking crowd, taking in only one thing- the scent of salt on the sea breeze. I feel Annie's hand slip into mine and glance back to see the wind ruffling her curls over her shoulder for one frozen moment.

I can't stop my jaw from dropping. Then a tiny chunk of human runs forward and nearly slide-tackles Annie. The sandy overgrown mop of hair on his head instantly brands him as her littlest brother. She peels the kid off her legs and scoops him up and presses her whole face into his cheek until I can't tell whose tears are whose anymore.

This is how a reunion is supposed to be.

I know it's the last footage of Annie that the citizens of Panem get this year, but I still wish I could shut the cameras off as more brothers push in and physically fight each other to hug her before she's even down the steps to level ground. They're followed by just slightly calmer parents and Miss Claire and her lucky fiancé. I'm pulled somewhere into the circle of relatives and there are suddenly little boys hanging from both my arms. Annie's sister alternates between embracing her, sobbing, glaring at me and thanking me profusely. Her man, a lean, broad-shouldered sailor type, eyes me suspiciously from close beside her, as if her childhood sweetheart has returned to steal her away before the wedding.

Claire finally pulls back, resting her hands on Annie's shoulders, and swabs at her eyes, rearranges every perfect blond hair in place. Her smile turns as mischievous as her sister's as she leans over and whispers in a singsong chant, _"Annie Odair, Annie Odair…"_

"Stop it!" Annie shoves her, eyes round and completely mortified. But a few seconds later, we're all in hysterics.

I feel someone watching me as I laugh. Mr. Cresta's gaze holds mine when I turn and the first thing I notice is _he's wearing the same belt. _I'm suddenly ready to be out of the limelight of this warm reunion and very far underwater.

"Mr. Odair," he says, voice clipped, before I can make my escape. "I owe you my thanks." His tone is polite, and genuine enough, but my stomach is still turning as I move to shake his hand. We automatically lean our heads in close for a confidential conversation.

"Mr. Cresta," I begin in a faltering whisper. "You should know that I never touched your daughter."

He bobs his head and grasps my hand firmly with a chilly smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Yes. That's what you said about the other one."

I have to grimace at that. Luckily, one of the brothers interrupts at that moment, calling, "Hey, look who _we _brought!"

Followed by Annie's gleeful shriek of _"Derek!" _I turn in time to see him fly into her arms and immediately start slobbering all over her face.

Derek, the cocker spaniel.

The cute, furry, and very _real _cocker spaniel I saw on her family's interview.

"You wrote a letter to a _dog?_" I try not to gasp as I say it.

Annie must see my jaw go slack, because she hurries over with her arms full of wriggling, panting puppy and holds him out to me with a mischievous look. "What's the matter?" she says in an old teasing tone that I know means she won't answer my question. "Don't you like dogs?"

I pat Derek's head, and he squirms around so I can rub his tangled furry belly. "Oh, of course."

I _love _dogs.

The two elder brothers take the puppy back and explain that Annie had promised to teach them how to train him, so now I'm thinking she must have written some sort of… instructions? I don't get a chance to ask before the mayor of District Four pushes through the crowd up to the train's platform and heartily pumps Annie's hand, causing the reporter's cameras to click endlessly. A group of Peacekeepers escorts our little group safely down the steps, holding back the cheering crowd that for once takes no notice of _me_, but at least they know better than to try to restrain Annie's family. I am still giving the white-suited men warning glares when hot sand crunches under our feet.

Welcome home, Team District Four. We made it.

Annie's mother and sister flank her, and the littlest brother named Bryce, who once threatened to take down the Capitol for her, snuggles with his head on her neck. I fall behind and sneak a glance over my shoulder. From a car near the back of the train, Peacekeepers are unloading a long wooden crate. A casket.

Welcome home, Team District Four. All of us. The mayor's eager voice, still ringing happily, is making it clear that today is the day for celebrating. We mourn the fallen tomorrow. Yes, tributes are allowed a funeral before they are forgotten.

Nothing and everything is different here now. We follow the worn trail back to town center, and the ocean's gentle lapping fades away behind us until it is a mute, peaceful background to our little parade. We step onto the old creaking boardwalk of the square, which has been polished and waxed, just as I predicted. The mayor mounts his platform and, wiping a sheen of sweat from the midday sun off his forehead, begins his official, exuberant congratulations for Annie. The citizens of Four are respectful but cautious in their applause. They aren't oblivious. They watched her eyes crack, and they study the fractures even now as Pallindra makes a few closing remarks about the Capitol's generosity. The mayor lifts Annie's hand high over their heads to denote her as the victor. As if she has any competition left for there to be a misunderstanding.

Then the food is brought out and spread across the market stalls, which have been converted into banquet tables for today. The flavor of the decoration, even in the midst of the Capitol's finery, is uniquely Four. The seashells strung up in the electric lights, tapestries woven in rope hanging along the front of the stalls, the green seaweed tint in the little loaves of bread. I'm drawn to that table, quaint compared to the surrounding delicacies. I haven't had a bite of this since I was a kid.

That's when I see her push through the crowd toward me. A middle-aged woman with ancient eyes, shoulders hunched forward with years of heaviness. She hesitates beside the musicians' stand, and the dark uncertainty on her face clashes in a sour note with the lively drinking song that's being played. I let my gaze shift around for an escape route- maybe I should rescue Annie from those chattering schoolgirls- and suddenly she's rushing toward me. Before I get away. Again.

My mother's arms wrap around my neck and pull my head down to her shoulder. She's shaking so hard, she must be crying. She didn't cry the last time I saw her- in the waiting room after the Reaping, supervised by Peacekeepers- but I cautiously lay my hands on her back anyway and hold her. I promised Annie, after all.

They say time heals all wounds.

"_Finnick_," she chokes over my shoulder, voice thick. "I _knew_ you would win." My mother must feel me start to jerk away, because her tone twists hysterically upwards. "You have to believe me. I knew it. I _knew_. You don't understand!" Even now she defends herself.

I pull back slowly and study the cloudless sky overhead, and I wonder if she was really stupid enough to believe it- that I would most definitely return when I came so close to dying.

And I wonder if _I_ am stupid enough to believe _her_.

I'm still deciding, and she's still stroking my cheek wistfully, when another figure ambles his way through the crowd. If only the familiar stumble could be Haymitch.

"Barnabus," I greet my wasted uncle coldly. I've mentally lived out this reunion many times over but, in my imagination, I'm never unarmed.

He strokes his peppered-gray beard. "Hey, kiddo. Long time, no see." The man's smile is crooked, but the alcohol doesn't quite mask that look I've come to recognize in his eyes. He's still evaluating. Sizing me up. And not only me. I see my uncle's gaze shift across the square to where Annie is signing autographs, and every hair on my body bristles at the leer on his face. "What happened to the blond one?"

"Excuse me?" My voice is so strained.

"The little blond thing you had last time." He licks his lips, just like I do when I'm not here and I'm not me. "Don't tell me you gave her up for _that._" That. Annie is now _that._ "If I were you-"

But unfortunately, he is not. "You want her number?" I roar, and my mother squeezes my arm as if she can feel my temper flaring. "You want that blonde's number?"

And unfortunately for my uncle, away from the cameras circling Annie, District Four is not a place where I have to restrain my feelings- or my fists. Suddenly, he's sprawled out on the boardwalk, cursing and wiping blood from his lip. "Because I don't _have _her number! I don't have it!" I should probably feel awful, but at the moment while I'm standing over him, I'm glad he knows that I'm strong enough to hit back now.

"_Finnick!_" my mother cries, voice shrill with shock and horror, as I turn and storm away. I refuse to look back.

Maybe some wounds take a lot more time to heal than others.

* * *

><p>The sun is sinking by the time the crowds disperse. Parties have been known to go all night in this square, but not today. These people can read when their victor has had enough of the rather hollow celebration. The strangers wander home with their first parcel gifts bundled in their arms- Annie fought so they could eat them, or so they've been told- and eventually the schoolgirls drift away, whispering among themselves with occasional shaken looks back over their shoulders at their old friend. Her eyes are glazed, arms wrapped tightly around herself. Why am I guessing they don't see the same person anymore?<p>

Annie's worn down by the time the crowd clears, and we set out on the short walk to the Victor's Village. Her mother drapes an arm across her shoulders, and Annie goes rigid on instinct. She must feel it, because she reaches out to touch Annie's cheek, then hesitates for a moment, scanning her face as if she's searching for bad news. Something doesn't quite add up to the victor's image on television: hollowed eyes, fragile, pale china skin, the anxious way she rocks on her heels. Mrs. Cresta tucks a strand of hair behind Annie's ear and tilts her chin up, her eyes quickly filling.

_What's wrong, Momma?_

"Nothing, baby." Annie's mother pulls her into a tight embrace, hiding her expression over her daughter's shoulder. The same way my mother hugged me, but so completely different. "I'm just so happy to see you again." And then her face crumples, and I don't think those are happy tears.

I realize that we all still have an awful lot to learn about each other.

I am forced to hang back a bit instead of running to Annie's side, because I've realized Mr. Cresta must be the source of the family's blazing eye genes. I already miss being close beside her. Which is ironic, considering her new home is two doors down from me.

The Cresta family's mansion is designed like every other house in the elite Victor's Village. Three stories tall, gleaming whitewashed finish, slanted roof with several alcoves facing out over the private expanse of beach. Having first pick of the houses, Mags took up residence in the one closest to shore. She always told me that when it was her time to go, she hoped she would be napping on the porch, and the tide would just come in a bit too far and sweep her out to sea in her sleep.

Mags insisted to Annie before we left that she move her family in next door to her, for the nice beach view, of course. Of course I am the real reason. My mansion stands on the other side of my mentor's, gleaming just as brightly on the outside, but I know that everything inside must be coated with dust. I'm not sure I want to fight the cobwebs through the doorway.

So I take my place among a line of relatives hauling cardboard boxes full of belongings up to their stately new house. It turns out that the Crestas have a fairly large extended family, all of whom I am now sole protector of, according to Snow. _Good to meet you guys_. I heft a box of silverware on my shoulder and find Annie reaching for my arm, eyes wide and full of wonder as we push open the solid oak door- probably the only wood she's ever seen in Four. It's out of place, but that's okay, so are we.

Claire ushers the two of us up the spiral staircase and into Annie's bedroom. The two youngest brothers, who I now have pegged as Jason and Bryce, trail her with their own oversized packages like a line of ducklings. Annie stops in the middle of the floor and looks up at the chandelier hanging over her bed, gawking for a long moment. Claire pokes her head out of the long walk-in closet, hair sweaty and sticking to her face, and all business like she moves into a mansion every day. "Do you want these dresses hanging up?"

Annie nods vacantly, and Claire disappears down the steps for another load. Her little sister wanders to an alcove on the west wall and perches on the window seat overlooking the evening's tide.

"I've never had a room alone before," she comments.

I bite back my first thought- _you get used to it_- and sit on the bed across from her. "Do you like it alright here? I mean, do you miss your old house?"

"Of course. But I like the neighbors here." We exchange a knowing smile, and then Annie leans back against the wall and hugs a cushion to her chest. She sounds about a hundred years old when she sighs. "I'm not sure I'm ready for all those girls again."

"Oh, really? What did they want to know?" I ask quietly.

"The usual," Annie murmurs. "About my feelings. Did I feel like I was going to die all the time? Did I feel things for you, and did the water feel as cold as it looked, and was it hard or easy to stab somebody?" She swallows hard. "Did I feel crazy when I forgot everything?"

My eyes widen. "They asked all that?"

Annie shakes her head, obviously struggling to focus. "No, but I did. They made me ask again. They made me wonder."

I rub my forehead slowly. "I wish they could understand."

"I wish they didn't have to," Annie whispers, because Bryce is coming back down the hallway to join us.

There's a loud _crash_ suddenly as whatever fragile thing he's carrying tumbles forward out of his hands, and shattered bits of glass from a lamp spill across the threshold. Annie reacts immediately, shrieking, folding to the hardwood floor, clutching her head like she has to keep it attached. Bryce abandons the wreckage of the little box and runs to wrap his arms around her neck. _Annie, Annie, stop-_

She chokes out a name sharply- I think it's Otto's- and he starts crying. I end up on the floor, holding one of them in each arm, my face pressed into Annie's shoulder, until all three of us stop shaking. Claire rushes in with her arms full and takes in the situation quickly, eyes flitting with panic. She encourages everyone to stay calm and hurries to go sweep up the shards of glass before anyone gets hurt. Because that kind of hurt can be prevented.

"Stay with me," I murmur into Annie's curls. "Don't go anywhere."

"I'm _trying_…" she groans. Annie leans against me and takes deep breaths, over and over again.

The little moptop sitting in my lap swipes his eyes frantically and pulls on my shirt sleeve, yelping, _what's wrong, what's wrong with Annie, why is she sad, why did she yell, did I hurt her? Is she hurt? _ I hold his shoulders until he finally stops to suck in a breath.

"You know when you have a really scary dream, and when you wake up it takes a while to calm down and realize you're awake?" I whisper to those wide, green-like-Annie's eyes. He nods furiously, and I continue. "Annie remembered something really scary, and she needs a minute to remember what's real now."

Bryce takes that in for a long, anxious moment. "It might help if you sang," I suggest quietly.

"The song Momma does?" he asks eagerly, with the childish certainty that I know exactly which song that is.

"Yes," Annie whispers, finally turning her face away from my arm so she's audible. She pulls her brother down into her lap. "That would help a lot."

I barely heard the footsteps coming down the hall, but now Mr. Cresta clears his throat softly in the doorway. I glance up and see that the hard lines of his face have softened beyond what I thought possible.

_Mr. Odair, do you want to stay for dinner?_

* * *

><p>The only bad thing about dinner is that it doesn't last the rest of my life.<p>

Everything else is wonderful. We have fresh cod and split peas, and Annie sits next to me and leans on my arm, and everyone loosens up and there's a puppy named Derek begging for scraps under the table, and it's so warm and safe here that even I am able to forget, for a moment, everything I've sacrificed for this moment. Mr. Cresta smiles from time to time and even laughs at some of my stories, and he doesn't even mind that we hold hands- on top of the table.

"Annie's always been very trustworthy," he mentions off-handedly.

The only bad thing about dinner is that I'm expected to go home afterwards, and I will always be expected to go home.

I try to shut out the way my steps echo on my matching spiral staircase and drop into bed, mission complete. My life's goal of bringing home a victor is accomplished. But it's _so _much more than that. It's _Annie_ who is home and safe and resting now. Her whole future is laid out open in front of her, and mine...

I crawl between my cool silk sheets and spend several hours trying to stop thinking about any future, staring up to where I know my crystal chandelier is cloaked in the night. The heavy blanket of blackness curls around my vision and threatens to suffocate me.

I learn something about myself that night. I, Finnick Odair, esteemed and idolized victor of the 65th Annual Hunger Games, slayer of monsters and men alike, am afraid of the dark.

It's never dark in the Capitol. Each hour after sundown grows progressively brighter there until midnight glows hot with neon and glitter and jewels and a thousand other flickering colors. The light never takes a night off, and they keep pills around so you don't have to either. Unless you're so thoroughly exhausted that you want to miss the party, then they have a pill for that, too, so you don't see darkness around you for long.

Dark air is hard to breathe.

It's not until I've opened the heavy curtains and flicked on every fancy electric light in the house that I realize it's not only the oppressive shadows that are unnerving me. It's the _silence_. It's never silent in the Capitol, either. I haven't dealt with a calm this open and empty and buzzing with thoughts in years. I pace around, completely wired now, ready to talk to myself like a madman just to fill the void.

Instead, I tear more cobwebs off the back door and find myself traveling on autopilot across the short sand lot to my second home. I hear Mags' old porch swing creaking quietly against the sea breeze. White-washed in moonlight, I see that the flower plots in front of her house are wilted and overgrown with weeds in her absence. This- this is _unacceptable. _She would have a heart attack and probably another stroke if she saw the way her property had been neglected. I crouch down in front of the first plot, viciously ripping up the offending plants by the roots, tossing them over my shoulder in a pile. Maybe I'll burn them later.

The nearly full moon is high overhead before I finally take a breath, wipe sweat off my forehead. Feel the gentle sound of the waves start to lap at the back of my brain. I collapse onto the familiar porch swing and rock to sleep in a world that's cold and dark and silent, save for my ocean.

I dream of light, and music, and a girl named Annie.

Annie _Odair_.

* * *

><p><strong>Dawwwww! Okay, I just issue a general apology for that chapter... and for Derek *dodges rotten tomatoes*... Just please forgive and hang around for the ending, which shouldn't be long in coming! Thanks again! :D I love you all!<strong>


	34. First

**The final chapter. :O **

**DUH DUH DUN...**

**There will be an epilogue that I hope to post tomorrow or Sunday, but it won't be emotionally resolving in any way, sooooo... If you are the sort who likes to leave sentimental-farewell-at-the-end-reviews... This is the place! Or if you are the sort who wants to leave a smiley face... to you I can only say...**

**:) - Right back atcha! ;)**

* * *

><p>I don't think I've ever been to a funeral before.<p>

I could have been at my father's, but there's really no telling. I would have been much too young to remember, and maybe even then, they kept me away from the truth. Maybe that scoundrel Barnabas already had plans for me. I picture him leading a wobbling toddler away from the casket and tucking a knife into his pudgy hand. I wouldn't be all that surprised.

I've never gone to pay my respects to any of the children that I failed to bring home breathing. Instead, I spent my district's period of mourning in the Capitol, as wasted as they would allow my underage self to get. I never spoke to their parents, didn't apologize for the things I couldn't stop and couldn't stop hating myself for. I didn't sing their praises with gritty tales of their bravery or the flowery, exaggerated speeches that the mayor gives of their service to Panem. I pretended Cassandra didn't have a funeral at all. I spent the whole day out on the water and threw back every fish I caught because I could swear it had freckles.

Annie, being a much better person than I've ever been, planned to attend Otto's funeral. I asked her about it on the train ride home as often as I dared, and she insisted that she wouldn't miss it for the world.

Early that morning, I knock on her solid oak front door, and her sister lets me in, her normally fiery face tired and drawn. She dutifully reports that Annie has been crying all night and throwing up most of it, and she's just now collapsed into sleep half an hour ago. I beg to see her, and Claire Cresta hesitantly leads me up the stairs of the echoing mansion. I kiss Annie's forehead and feel her breath on my face and have to be content with that before she wakes up and starts apologizing- or worse, decides to go with me.

So I go alone.

It's a private affair, at least. No cameras at the square today to capture the tears and further exploit the Morris family. For the first time since the Reaping many weeks ago, I don't share the stage with my tribute. I'm not asked to make a speech on his behalf. My presence is not required or requested, and I'm not even sure I'm welcome here. I slip into the furthest possible row of folding chairs assembled in the square, and the whispering local women seated in front of me immediately drop off into stony silence. They must think I'm a coward for slinking into the back like a dog with its tail between its legs. They must _know_ I'm a coward because I've never been here before.

I'm done with being a coward.

There's little that I could really add to the mayor's simple acknowledgement of his sacrifice- except that maybe it was driven by something in addition to nobility. It's something left unspoken. For as many times as the words "Annie" and "bravery" and "protection" are uttered at the ceremony, the word "love" isn't. Not once. It would take the whole story from tragic to heart-wrenching beyond belief. I don't know what Pallindra was planning to say, because she breaks down in full-blown sobs as soon as she takes the platform. She's led down again, flanked by several stoic Capitol attendants.

I'm almost glad I wasn't asked to speak.

His mother and brother take care of that, and reveal the bit of Otto that was never confiscated for the Capitol's personal use. The fearless warrior actually started out as a child who slept in a crib and explored tide pools and beat up his little brother and actually won a spelling award, once. The younger Morris boy, an awkwardly bulky kid of about fourteen, somberly tells the gathered crowd that thanks to Otto's sacrifice and Annie's victory, he won't have to volunteer next year, as he was planning.

I desperately try to meet the boy's eyes. Don't volunteer next year. Don't ever volunteer. But he's already done and Aragon Morris steps up, taps the microphone. With his voice echoing in his barrel-drum chest like it's hollow, he says exactly six words of his eldest son.

"_I am so proud of him."_

And then he steps down again.

The women in front of me frown and go back to whispering because six words of farewell is too short and unfair, just like Otto's life, and it will never come anywhere close to being enough.

But it is enough. I may be the only one here who understands that.

An old man near the front begins the dirge, and voices scattered through the crowd join one by one, in hushed, cracking tones. Rows of people stand and slowly file to the front to pay their respects, and that's when I see that they've opened the casket.

How could they _open_ the casket?

I find myself taking my place at the back of the line, and nobody in front of me is reacting in the way I expect. No one is repulsed or vomiting the way I did when it happened. It must be safe to look now. But my vision suddenly flashes red, and I don't know if I can. I don't think so. I don't think I can look. I shuffle forward anyway, hands thrust into my pockets, gaze locked on the wispy clouds breezing by overhead.

Something tugs on my sleeve then, and a high-pitched voice close to the ground says, "Hi" with much more volume than is appropriate right now. I glance down to find a little girl of maybe four with jet-black braids flung over her shoulders. "I'm Lily."

"Hi there," I answer cautiously. "I'm Finnick."

She jerks a thumb over her shoulder at the polished casket, which still stands several mourners away from me in the line. "That's my brother."

"Oh." What more can you say to that? What kind of apology can I give her?

"He's dead." Lily states with certainty, fingering the end of one braid solemnly. "Isn't he?"

I take a deep breath and nod silently, wanting nothing more than to close my eyes and shut out this little person's wide-eyed bird stare. She's cocking her head, studying me, inspecting my face, with none of the grief or hatred of the adults here. Just a morbid, Annie-like curiosity, asking, _is everything they told me about Finnick Odair true?_

"I can't see," she says at last, rising on tiptoe, gesturing to the casket again. "I can't see him. I'm too short." Lily holds out chubby arms to me. "Pick me up."

Oh, God, no. I swallow hard and squeeze the bridge of my nose. "Sweetheart-" There's another flash of red behind my eyelids. "Not right now. You don't want to…"

"Pick me _up!_"

I falter and start again. "You don't want to see…" I'm searching for an escape route. "Don't you want to remember…"

"Pick me up _now!_" she shrieks."I want to see him! I want to see my brother!"

The little girl's face is beet-red and people are starting to turn around. She's disrupting the dirge. I wordlessly bend down and scoop her weightless form up, step forward to the casket, silently apologize for whatever she's going to have burned in her mind from this moment on.

Lily looks and she doesn't scream, but I still don't dare, because I am much more of a coward than she is. It's not until she leans forward and nearly pitches out of my arms that I'm forced to steady her, glance down into the wood box.

Otto's dressed like a tribute still, not all gussied up in the finery that would have made him uncomfortable. The toes of his hiking boots stick up out of the casket awkwardly, identical to the ones he gave to Annie. As I watch, his little sister strains forward against my chest and reaches out, lovingly strokes his cheek, his closed eyelids, the ripple of black hair against satin. With wide-bird eyes, she traces a finger across a line of stitches beneath his jaw that are attaching his head to his neck.

I hike Lily up onto my hip and squeeze my eyes closed again, heat flushing down my spine, wrenching my stomach. _Oh, what can't the Capitol fix?_

She bends down and presses a kiss to his cheek, and I shatter all over again. The answer is me. They can't fix me.

They can't fix Annie and they can't fix me.

A group of muscle-bound fishermen hefts the casket into the bottom of a little wooden dinghy and they push it down to the sea shore, bare feet cutting deep trenches in the burning sand. The tide picks up where they leave off, carrying the body out toward the horizon and a great, vast, empty sea. I head to my own silent home.

When I walked the streets of Four years ago, all I saw were strong men and fierce warriors-in-training, bright lanterns strung up everywhere, huge false storefronts. Now, there is brokenness every place that I look. Weather-beaten shacks on the edge of town. Fish bones littering the footpath. Those rocky cliffs rising in the distance don't seem so majestic anymore, but cracked and worn down by the age-old, constant drumming of the waves. The world is not what I ever thought it was, and I can't decide whether this is more of a disappointment or a relief.

I walk past my mansion and continue the fifty yards down to the shoreline instead, stopping only to rip a few more weeds out of Mags' flower box. I toss them down in a clump of seaweed and let the waves take care of those, too. The morning fog has burned off under the searing gaze of the sun, and sailor's intuition tells me this is one of the last few sweltering days of a waning summer. The water has brightened from twilight gray to brilliant turquoise, shimmering against the paler blue of the sky. It's a picture perfect scene. But even here, things are broken. The sand on this private, less tread-upon stretch of beach is all broken-down seashells. They haven't been ground to grains yet, and the rainbow shards still stick up from among the worn pebbles and gravel.

I toss my shirt down on the shore and swim out to where I can clear my head. I dive and twirl and surface effortlessly, tirelessly, fueled by anger and confusion and bitterness. Unfortunately, this will only keep me going for so long. I dread finding out whether I'll be able to go on in the Capitol after that rage-fire burns itself out. After the real light is extinguished.

How many more times will we see each other? Maybe they'll let me eat dinner with the family again tonight, and then dawn tomorrow, it's back to my home away from home. She'll have a victory tour, six months from now. Six months, and we'll have to play indifferent to one another. Will that be worth just losing her again? And then…

I float there, bobbing on my back, staring at the sun, until I'm blinded by tiny twinkling spots. My other senses must be overcompensating, because even from this far out in the water I hear a door slam shut back on land. I sit up, treading water, and blink a few times to clear my vision. A figure picks her way down the beach from the house next-door to Mags'.

Well, speak of the chickadee, there she is. Fresh out of bed, judging from her tangled curls and baggy sweats. That's what she was wearing the very first time I told her she was pretty. I start to make my way back to shore, because even from this distance her face seems pale with anxiety as she searches for me in the water. Annie comes right up to the line of dark, wet sand, and watches the tide creep its way in, breeze tousling her hair in that messy, picture perfect way.

"Hey," I call unceremoniously as I wade in toward her, decorated with little bits of sand and seaweed.

"Hey," she calls back, gaze still locked on the foam lapping at her feet. She is so afraid here, and yet somehow fearless, because here she is.

I quickly towel myself off with my sandy shirt and then throw the sopping wet thing back on anyway, because I haven't missed that the tips of Annie's ears are turning pink. "Didn't expect to see you out here," I say lamely.

_Waves. Flood water. Rising._ This is what I see etched in Annie's memory when she finally glances up at me again. "I love the ocean," she says falteringly. "You said yourself. Why shouldn't things still be the same?"

Maybe because so many things have tried to drag her under, it's a miracle she didn't drown.

"Of course. It's your ocean, Annie." I gesture widely behind me. "It's right here for you whenever you're ready for it. And your family's going to be here, too. How are they doing?"

"They're good. They're great. It's _so _great to be back." Annie catches my unspoken question, _why aren't they supervising you_, and saves me from having to ask it. "My parents took the boys to the market. They're going to fix another celebration lunch for today. I'm _ordered_ to let them pamper me." She rolls her eyes good-naturedly. "Claire passed out on the couch an hour ago. I guess I kept her up late." From her tone, I can tell she doesn't remember much of last night.

Annie pauses to squish wet sand in between her toes, pretending to be fully absorbed in the task. I just wait for what she's trying not to say. "Claire thinks she's going to fix me," Annie says at last. "She told me that herself, this morning. She said that our family couldn't wait until I'm _all better._"

I close my eyes and stifle a sigh. "They might not understand, Annie, but… they love you. That's obvious. _Please- _don't push them away."

"You said to hold onto them," Annie murmurs. "You said not to let the Capitol take _anything_ away from me." Her voice is low and she keeps her eyes averted. "But you didn't mean it."

I leave tonight on the express for the Capitol. Of course I didn't mean it. "Annie…" I begin softly.

So she drops that subject and moves on to a much brighter one. "How was the funeral?" Annie whispers.

I immediately go stiff and silent in that way that I wish she didn't recognize so well. It was much easier back when I just understood her pain, and not the other way around. Annie weaves her fingers through mine and brushes the other hand over my temple, combs through my dripping hair. She pulls my head down until my cheek rests on top of her head.

"I'm sorry I wasn't there," Annie whispers. Her hair smells strangely like sunshine. She silently sinks onto the sand, folding her legs under her, and gently tugs me down beside her. Small arms wrap around my middle, and I'm overcome with a jumble of emotions as I cradle her head against my chest. Hope. Hopelessness. Longing. And an inescapable _warmth_.

"I'm here now," Annie assures me in a tone barely audible over the gentle cadence of the waves. "I'm here." The ocean is terror to her, but she is here now because she knows it's comfort to me. Annie squeezes her eyes shut, ear pressed to my heart.

"How can you take a picture with your eyes closed?" I tease her huskily.

Annie shakes her head silently and mutters something that makes sense only in her little world- "twice for every wave". I realize after a long moment that she is listening to my heartbeat.

Well, it must be picking up speed.

Her eyes fly open again, and Annie doesn't grace me with an answer. Only another question. "What's your favorite memory?" she asks.

This is. Hands down. But that's a strange answer because, just hours from now, it will be the most painful thing I can ever remember. I hesitate for a moment, pinning my gaze on something far over the horizon. "I don't know if it's happened yet," I admit lamely. "What's yours? It was here, wasn't it?"

A faraway look creeps across her face, as if she's searching for the same distant point that I've fixated on. Maybe we're looking for Otto. "When I was a little girl, I was walking on the beach alone…" She pauses to trace her fingers through the sand. "And I came across a shark lying on the shore. Just lying there. Washed-up. Six feet long, at least. It was just flopping around, gasping, almost lifeless. So I just went and kicked it right back into the sea."

"Oh, you did?" I start to laugh aloud at the mental image of Annie, as a small child, being big and brave and bold enough to walk up to a hungry shark and show it a little tough love. "Well, you've always been spunky, haven't you?"

Annie shrugs. "I don't know. It didn't actually happen."

"Excuse me?" I protest, poking her stomach so she can't help but giggle. "I must have misheard you, then."

Annie pushes me back lightly, trying her very best to scowl. "It didn't! It never happened. It was a story my mother told us when we were little kids. But I remember doing it as clearly as anything. I always told the story, and Claire and my brothers would just laugh and laugh because I really believed it happened." She shakes her head in wonder, remembering. "Isn't it amazing the tricks your mind can play on you?"

The words are heavy with too much meaning. Annie pours another handful of the shell sand between her fingers and watches it intently. I can't help but notice the way the jagged fragments catch the sunlight as she sifts through them. Have broken things always been so beautiful?

"All of my best memories never happened. That's what I've figured out," Annie says steadily, but her hands dig faster and deeper through the sand and they betray her uneasiness. I have a soggy piece of rope in my pocket that I willingly donate, and she takes it up and begins to tie knots, almost subconsciously. "Never. No matter how clearly I remember something now, I always have to ask someone else what is real. I can't trust myself to know."

"Then I guess you'd better stick with people you can trust," I advise.

"Maybe I don't want to know what's real," Annie says stubbornly. "Aren't there some things you'd rather stay mysteries?"

The simple answer is no. I've been looking for something real my entire life, and the moment I found it, I started clinging to it like a lifeline.

"I would have been perfectly happy to live out the rest of my life thinking I had kicked a shark, without knowing it was my imagination, and without being teased about it. I would have been _so_ happy." Annie's getting oddly choked up on this subject, so I pull her close and wait for her to sort through the chaos that overtakes her mind sometimes.

"I would have been happy not to learn that I was in the hospital after the Games, or that I was on suicide watch, or that they needed to wax my legs. I thought I was below deck in a boat- I really thought I was- and I rocking with the waves. And there was a storm and I was going to jump overboard but then somebody said, '_No. I love you, Annie. I love you.' "_

Her voice breaks, and I startle.

"Somebody said that in the middle of the wind, and I didn't drown."

She heard? There's no way she heard me. And remembered. She remembered all this time? I tilt her face toward mine. "Annie, baby- you heard somebody say that? You heard-" She cuts me off before I can deny or confess it.

"It was a dream," Annie croaks. "A dream I had about you when I was sick, and you can't laugh because I'm sure a thousand other girls have had that same dream and believed it with all their hearts, but…" She trails off. "I was insane. I was medicated. I'm not- I'm not asking whether it happened. I don't need you to say."

My heart splashes down into my stomach. The sun becomes cripplingly bright overhead. If she asked, I don't think I could lie to her anymore, but, no, she's not asking. Why? "Because you're afraid that it wasn't real?" I ask softly.

Annie gives a shuddery sigh. "No, I'm- I'm more afraid…" Her hands creep up toward her ears like she's tempted to block out my voice, or something going on inside her own head. "I'm more afraid that it _was _real, and you'll say that it wasn't. To protect me. I'm more afraid that… that you won't ever let me say it back. I can't hear that. I can't. Please."

Surely nothing could hurt more than this. She loves me back. Somewhere up above us, a lone seagull cries. I drop my head into my hands.

"That happened," Annie whispers, as if I'm not already very painfully aware of the fact. "Don't tell me it didn't. This is the only thing I know."

Here's the part where I am noble- one last time. One more time, as necessary. "Annie, I have to go."

"Not forever."

For all practical purposes, yes. I'll be gone for more of forever than a person could stand. "I can't keep coming back. I can't do that to you. I couldn't live with myself if… if I knew I was hurting you here."

She grabs my arm feverishly. "You wouldn't hurt me, Finnick. I understand now and it doesn't matter, it won't _ever_ matter, I can stay here and wait-"

"Annie, you are _not_ waiting for me!" I cut her off sharply, loneliness carving into my heart like a blade. It doesn't matter whether I _try _to hurt her. Doesn't she see that loving me _is _pain?

"And why not? I leave you all the time, and you are _always _there when I get back!" she protests. "Every time. How could I tell you to leave? How could I ever make you stop loving me?"

She can't. She never could. I walked right into this one, didn't I? Annie's eyes burn right through into my soul, like before, like that very first day, and she must see my bravado melting away. She must see that I need her as much as she needs me. Can you really fight something like this? Maybe my nobility isn't the problem.

"Annie, I'm afraid…" I admit quietly. I grossly understate this terror that's eating away at me. "I'm afraid that it wouldn't last. Everything will just pull us apart again. And it would be _so_ much harder than the first time."

Annie glances away, hands fidgeting still. She forms a loop in the rope and hands both ends of it back to me. Her eyes glow green fire, the kind that shows no sign of ever flickering out. Or burning me.

"Pull this knot apart, Finnick. Pull it so hard it tears apart."

I look at her blankly, and she closes her hands over mine, starts to tug the ends in opposite directions so that they close together. "You're strong, Finnick. Go ahead. Pull us apart."

I pull, but everything I try yanks the knot tighter. I'm only making it stronger. Annie studies my face, waiting patiently.

"It's impossible," I say finally.

_Impossible._ I drop the rope decisively. We're intertwined now. Her hands are balled up in my shirt, and she rubs at a spot on my chest just over my heart, like it's frozen and she's trying to knead a little warmth back into it. Her words flutter into my ear, soft and breathy.

"Can you please just let me love you? Because I'm really not sure if you can stop me."

Impossible things happen. I say yes.

It's something like giving up and something like starting over again. This is an option that allows for tomorrows. She's crying and I'm hugging her so tightly my arms ache and you can't tell my heartbeat from hers from the breaking waves. "This is the only time I'm ever going to say this, my dear, but you must be out of your mind," I manage. "You don't know what you're getting into."

Annie pulls back to look me in the eye. "Here's what I know. No matter where my mind goes, my heart is right here." She holds up our knot again, pulling one end tight. "And no matter where your body goes, your heart stays here, too. That part of you can stay with me." She tugs the other end and holds it up for my inspection.

"It will," I insist, clasping her hand, stroking a bed-headed curl behind her ear. "Will you believe that no matter what you see on a TV screen?"

"Of course," she murmurs. It's not enough for me.

"Promise me," I urge her, heat flushing my cheeks. I have never trusted anybody like this before. I never will again. "Promise me."

"Let's make a promise," Annie agrees.

Annie and I make a horrible, wonderful, terrible, beautiful promise, and a promise, a kiss, can't ever mean nothing to me again. This one means more than I could ever begin to express in words. I try, but her lips immediately stop mine, and they taste like sea salt and knots and promises and the first rays of daylight peeking in. And this time I do it right, gentle and slow and sweet as the sunshine in her hair, because after all, it's Annie's first kiss.

It's my first kiss, too.

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><p><strong>:')<strong>

**Thanks for reading, everybody! :D :D :D I love you all so much and you've made me a better author with your support and concrit and THANK YOU and I'm going to get all emotional now... :') :') *goes off to cry because six months of her life's passion is over now*  
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**Well, there's still an epilogue... STAY TUNED! :D**


	35. Epilogue

**Hello again! Well, this is like... the conclusion to the conclusion. It's irritatingly- not satisfying, and just sort of serves as a bridge between my story and Suzanne Collins' canon stories (BLESS HER SOUL MAY SHE LIVE FOREVER SHE WHOSE CHARACTERS ARE LEGALLY HERS AND NOT MINE FOREVER AND FOREVER AMEN).**

**I had a lot of issues with switching verb tenses in this for some reason, so let me know if I didn't get everything fixed up correctly... One last time... Here goes... ;D  
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><p>It's worth it.<p>

Isn't it? As long as Annie never has to feel like this.

Burned up. Washed out. Like a dozen sponges are dipping into her, soaking her up bit by bit. They think I'm a never-ending spring, and aren't they going to be surprised when they hit rock bottom?

I grip the ornately carved handrail of the balcony, seven stories up, high enough to look down on the darkened streets of the Capitol below. Colorful tiles glisten in the beams of neon and streetlights and headlights, forming twinkling ribbons in the shadows. Gold necklaces draped across velvet. Pretty words for such a dismal sight. A hazy pink dawn is rising in the east, over the heavy forms of the mountains looming on all sides of the city, serving as watchtowers and strongholds- to keep us in. It's strange and wrong to watch the sun rise over snow-capped peaks and skyscrapers when just two nights ago, I saw it swallowed by the ocean's reflection as it sank.

Two nights down. I couldn't begin to tell you how many more. I lost the strength to count after a hundred or so.

_A hundred._ I shiver in the early morning breeze and wrap my thin robe more tightly around me, cursing silently so as not to awaken the lovely young lady still sleeping inside. Heaven forbid Finnick Odair get to wear more than a bare minimum of clothing.

None of us thought it would be a good idea to bring Annie down to the train station that morning, so I came to her house to say good-bye. It was as brief and as painful as possible, because Annie wasn't mentally _there _and I was afraid she wouldn't come back before I left.

I underestimated her, of course. I'll never forget her family's dropped jaws when I picked up my suitcase and stepped out onto their porch without daring a backward glance. Annie suddenly cried out and ran after me. She grabbed both of my shoulders and spun me around and she kissed me again.

_Right on the lips! _Bryce hissed in astonished amazement.

Right on the lips.

My hands were full and I wasn't expecting it, so she nearly knocked me down the front steps into the sand. It was the most wonderfully awkward second kiss of my life. Wonderful until we broke apart, and Annie broke down again.

She'd been in a daze the entire time I'd said farewell, her voice hollow and wooden, like she was stuck in a stranger's body. I'd have given anything to pull her out of her imaginary world and just _talk_ with her one more time. Then I wished I had left her in peace. Annie cried and carried on and hung on for dear life. I didn't. I wanted to. But instead I was so brave, so calm and patient, quietly reassuring her that everything would be okay. I'd come back. We'd be okay.

I'd be _okay._

One thing I've learned is that if you repeat a lie to yourself often enough, you start to believe it.

Back in the present tense, the door leading in to the suite slides open quietly, and my little princess herself slips out onto the balcony, shiny black hair falling in a curtain over her face. Cassandra sweeps it back over one shoulder and then tightens her sheer robe around her, purposefully tugging it down so I can get an eyeful of her brand new birthday tattoo. It's got something to do with shark teeth, I think, and it's probably supposed to be making my mouth water. Oh, well.

Cassandra sneaks around behind me and bends over, sliding her cold hands around my neck, down my chest while she nuzzles my ear. I barely catch her whispered words. _Love you._

Of all the girls I've met, Cassandra has to be the absolute worst. Because the thing is, she's too young and too naive and I can't quite manage to hate her like the others. I can't quite convince myself that she's ugly, either, and the guilt is already threatening to strangle me.

I tug her down onto my lap. _Love you, too. _ Now is the time to swallow back the nasty taste in my mouth. Cassandra leans forward until I feel hot breath on my lips, and for a moment, I'm staring into dark brown eyes that flutter shut in expectation.

All I can see are bright green ones.

I turn away from her at the last second. After everything else, one simple kiss is suddenly just too much. "I'm sorry, babe," I mutter to the tiled balcony floor. "I'm not feeling well."

It's not a lie. Exhaustion has been creeping up on me for the past several days. Snow has wasted his time planning my visits, ensuring that I get no rest, because I'm a bit of a nervous wreck anyway. Obviously, I can't go on like this forever. The girls are starting to notice something wrong, oblivious as they are. The real question isn't whether I can survive this. It's whether I can survive feeling so _powerless _like this.

Cassandra asks what's on my mind, and I say _her, of course_, but she seems to know I'm lying. I'm actually wondering just how sick heartache can make you. I'm wondering if you can die from it.

I really believed it, you know. I fully believed that it would be better, easier, to go into the Capitol, knowing that no matter what happened here, somebody loved me.

Twenty-four hours and a whirlwind train ride later, I was acquainted with the side of Capitol life that is too ghastly for even the cameras to capture. My job had always been on the cleaner side of horrid. It truly was for publicity. Polished, professional, carefully constructed so as to make each woman appear to be a passing fancy. I carried one around on each arm at public events, and if they didn't make it any further with me in our day and night together, it was their fault and not mine.

This time, my first stop off the train was some fancy nightclub named for the victor of the very First Annual Hunger Games. I'd never even heard of it before. The air was thick with smoke and lights, not polished to perfection the way I was accustomed to. There were no names there but one, two, then three pretty faces and three ritzy hotel rooms. I watched them close coins into the President's hand. There was no pretense of affection. I gave and they took.

_It's different now. Everything's different._

I may or may not have gotten sick to my stomach twice there- nobody was sober enough to notice. I stumbled back to the penthouse at three o'clock in the morning, very drunk and very not sorry about it, and slammed my door violently. Screamed a thousand curses into the empty night air. Collapsed with my face smothered in a pillow.

_Everything's different now._ Before Annie, I never, ever cried, and why couldn't it be numb and easy the way it was before? I thought it would be easier now, knowing somebody loved me, but I found it's not easy to know _anything_ here. Not here in the harsh real world.

And this _was _the real world, wasn't it? The longer I remained in the Capitol, the farther Four seemed. The beach had to be a thousand miles away and the kiss was hazy, like something in a dream world. Maybe for the first time, I really understood Annie's mental escapes. Dream worlds are softer and safer and in a dream world, I had made a kiss mean something. Surely _that _was what was fake. Pain like this couldn't be imaginary. I curled up in bed, hugging my knees to my chest, mind pulsing with one repetitive thought. _Annie doesn't love me. Annie cannot love me. _And if she ever thought she did, it was because she didn't know, she didn't understand, and nobody could stay that ignorant forever. Nobody.

I found the rope buried somewhere in the pocket of my swim shorts, frayed by the constant friction of Annie's meltdowns and mine combined. The knot that her quick fingers tied was still tightly bound up in the middle of it, unbearably _tangible, _and in a fit of rage I tried to rip it apart again. I couldn't. I still couldn't. I can't.

_You don't know a thing about love, _Annie chided me sharply in my mind, just like she had that first day on the train.

_Of course I don't! _I snapped back. Now I was arguing with the people in my dream worlds. Who was the crazy one again?

Dawn broke before I had futilely torn up my fingers, and the pain ebbed enough for me to pass out. I dropped off into restless sleep and missed breakfast and probably lunch by a long shot. I waited for my prep team to run in a flurry of panic because I was sure I must have transformed into the most hideous person alive.

Nobody came but Pallindra. She perched on the edge of the bed and wordlessly handed me a bowl of soup. I forced myself upright to accept it.

"Before you go see any of those girlfriends of yours today, Mr. Odair, you're going to visit Mags." That frilly woman halted my exclamation, holding up a hand in front of my bewildered face. "Don't argue. Really, she and I are sick of each other and she could use some new company. Just for an hour or so, I'm afraid you don't have any choice." There was a knowing gleam in her eyes even as her penciled eyebrows shot up, daring me to question her.

I opened my mouth to thank her, but found my eyes welling up instead.

"Oh, none of _that_," Pallindra said brusquely, rising to her feet.

I gripped her hand before she could turn to leave and whispered hoarsely. "Marry me."

"_Finnick!_" she scolded sharply. It was a joke but it wasn't a _proper_ one. I didn't care, her horrified face was such a wonderful distraction from the heart-numbing reality I was facing.

"Nobody has to know," I choked out between outbursts of laughter. "We can elope. Run away together. Come _back!_"

The slam of the door rattled my bed springs. Life went on, I supposed, fingering the very real rope in my hands. That knot that had become impossible for me to untie.

_You don't know a thing about love, _Annie whispered. This time, her tone was very tender.

Then by all means, chickadee, _teach me_.

"_Finnick._" Cassandra's irritated tone jolts me out of my reverie. She leans back and folds her arms across her chest. "I'm still here."

The sky is ablaze in orange and pink overhead. There's a long silence as I watch her face and realize how big of a window I have just missed with her, staring out at the sunrise wistfully. She's still waiting for something I don't have to give to her.

She leaps off my lap, hands on her hips, eyes flashing furiously. I've really done it now. "Baby…"

"You still love her," Cassandra snarls in an instant accusation. Her voice is ice and it sends chills snaking down my spine. Surprisingly, I've never had this one thrown at me before, because very few of the girls are naïve enough to believe that they are my only love.

"Which her?" I ask with a smirk, even as my heart sinks, because of course there have been so many I could never possibly remember one in particular.

"You know who!" she snaps. "The victor girl."

I give a loud, haughty laugh. "You've got to be joking, babe!" I wrap an arm around Cassandra's waist and tilt her chin toward me. "Why the heck would I want that _lunatic _when I can have anything and _anyone _I want?"

I want to be home with her. Nothing else.

Cassandra snorts, nostrils flaring hotly. "You called her name last night. 'Annie! _Annie!_'" she cries out, mockingly. My heart just comes to a standstill. "'Annie, don't cry!' That's what you said!"

No. No, I've never talked in my sleep before. And yet… somehow I don't doubt it a bit. Because I haven't stopped calling for Annie since the train pulled out of District Four.

Could there have been a worse moment to be overheard? She's the president's niece, and I have disappointed her. I'm going to suffer for it. Annie will suffer. He'll have her killed… Her family…

"What do you want?" I hiss under my breath.

Cassandra drops into the chair beside me and buries her face in her hands. "What do _I _want?" she repeats miserably. "What do _you _want, Finnick? Go home. Just go home to her. I don't want you here anymore."

She doesn't mean it. There's no way. The snake's child is spewing poison, and I'm a dead man now.

Cassandra starts crying then, and I stare at her blankly, bewildered and terrified because she holds my most precious secret in her hands and now she's completely cracking up. Do I break every girl that I touch?

"Baby, let's just forget all this. You know how I feel about you," I tell her in a silky voice, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. Maybe there's some chance she's foolish enough to let it go if I can distract her. "You're wearing that perfume I like, aren't you? The lilac blossoms?" I sniff her hair and lean in toward her mouth, but this time, she is the one who pushes me away.

"All _right? _It is not _all right!_" Cassandra shrieks. She sobs and wraps her arms around herself tightly. "Don't lie to me. You don't want to be here any more than I do. Do you think I'm too stupid to know that?"

Her cries are piercing my eardrums. "I can make you forget this…" I stroke her cheek lightly, although my own breathing is becoming very shallow. "You have money, of course... Fame. You want to be famous? Finnick Odair's new girlfriend? Name it. Anything you want. I have everything."

My voice cracks then. I have nothing.

"Anything I want? People think they know _everything I want_. Do you think I _want_ to live here under the President's shadow my entire life? With his _political legacy _passed on to me like I'm his daughter? Like he can replace my father." She chokes on her own words, tears branding black streaks of makeup down her cheeks.

"Your father?" My heart rate slows to the point where I can move and breathe again. "What are you talking about, baby?" I don't have to force the sympathy into my voice.

Cassandra glares at me through red-rimmed eyes, a terrifying sight with the black stains surrounding them. "Oh, I'm sorry," she snaps sarcastically. That's another thing I'm not supposed to mention. My father was a politician, too, you know. A good one. I guess he got a little too good." She hiccups, still hugging herself tightly. "He killed him. President Snow killed my father." And then she adds with a bitter, trembling smile, "Shhhh. Don't tell."

The words slap me across the face. What have I stumbled upon here? A horrendous family scandal of epic proportions. What has it cost them to keep this quiet? Nearly everything, I'm sure.

"I shouldn't say any more," Cassandra murmurs through her tears. "Knowledge is power, and you know what happens to powerful people here."

Powerful people fight for everything they care about here, that's what happens. Powerful people rebel. Some of them lose. Maybe some grow stronger. Maybe we find allies in the unlikeliest of places.

Maybe powerful people go home.

One thing I know. A secret this valuable can't be alone. What will it cost them to know why his breath smells like blood?

"Oh, baby," I murmur, pulling Cassandra's head down onto my shoulder, stroking through her lilac-scented hair comfortingly. "Tell me everything."

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><p><em>Finnick loves _.<em>

_Finnick loves _A_._

_Finnick loves _An_._

_Finnick loves _Ann_._

_Finnick loves _Anni_._

_Finnick loves _Annie_._

_Shhhh, don't tell._

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><p><strong>Thanks for reading, everybody! I love you all! *physics-defying hugs and kisses* I don't have any plans at the moment for a sequel, with school and life and all, but I love these characters too much to leave them alone forever. So if you follow me I'm gonna try some one-shots, most likely. Thanks for the reviews and the encouragement and making me so wonderfully awesomely welcome on this site! :'D :'D Happy writing!<strong>

**EDIT: 1/12/2015- I finished this story 2 and a half years ago, and today it hit 500 reviews! I looked over the story for the first time in years, and there's so much that I still love about it and so much that I would change if I wrote it today... (and so many typos that I never corrected!) Thank you all SO MUCH for your feedback in spite of all that, and thanks for just being awesome readers! I was so encouraged by this, and I'm actually working on my first novel now, something I never would have had the confidence to attempt before discovering this website. Seriously, I love you all and thanks for reading! Now go and follow your dreams! :D**


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